


By The Grace I Found In Thee

by Welsh_Woman



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Friar Stiles, M/M, Medieval Medicine, TW: Period Typical Homophobia, TW: Period Typical Racism, TW: suicidal thoughts, Templar Derek, Violence, War Setting, tw: homophobic slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-08 11:58:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 42,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7757014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Welsh_Woman/pseuds/Welsh_Woman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A battle hardened and mistrusting Templar has his faith returned when a caravan arrives carrying a young Friar who is struggling with his own sense of belief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Upon This Holy Soil

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Saucery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/gifts).



> **FIRST OFF** , let me say that the racism and homophobia in this story is not the thoughts of me, the actors that play the characters that are in this story, nor acceptable in any way. I believed that it was appropriate for the time of the story and do not agree with any of the thought therein.
> 
> Next, this is partially a gift for [Saucery](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com), because she is the one that made a [cap-locked post](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/post/66872254001/historical-sterek) a couple of years ago about it, and it also is part of a WIP Big Bang that finally got it out of the dusty folder that it had been living in since then.
> 
> I also was gifted with some _beautiful_ artwork by Alobear, whom is the absolute _best_ and I am ever so lucky to have been partnered with them!
> 
> And, as ever, thank you to my lovely Beta [memprime](http://memprime.tumblr.com), who powerhoused through this to make sure I made it by my posting date. Love you baby!

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/67271549@N00/28536907993/in/dateposted-public/)

It is when they are heading back from the battlefield that someone alerts Derek to the fact that a caravan has arrived and that Commander Scott requests his presence, a low murmur spreading through his men as the news travels.

After all, it _has_ been a while since the last time a caravan traveled through here, that anyone has dared come this close to the fighting, had the stomach to stand the stench of death that billowed through the air like a lady’s expensive perfume...

So, naturally, Derek is curious as to _what_ could have brought a caravan here and more of who could possibly _want_ to come here, now that the last of the recruits have been gathered up from the surrounding villages.

Waving the rest of his men off, Derek makes his way to where Commander Scott is standing, falling beside his Captain with a stiff nod and nary a sound as the nearest carriage slows to a stop in front of them.

The man that steps out of the carriage is larger and darker than the infidels that they have been fighting, darker than Sir Boyd is, and even _darker_ than the stone that his second had gifted one of the washer girls only that morning. It causes the men that think they are clever enough to evade Derek’s notice to whisper amongst themselves as the man moves aside to let his companion exit only a few steps behind him.

It’s a boy.

A gangly, long limbed, clumsy _boy_ no more than five and ten with dusty brown robes so bulky on his frame that he nearly brains himself simply by stepping out of the carriage. He _would have_ busted his mouth open if the dark skinned man at his side had not grabbed at his arm to stop his descent.

The smile that follows is one of a _child’s_ , nearly splitting his face in half and seemingly unabashed of being shown, the joy unable to stay just on his face when he trips behind his elder as they move toward the encampment. Scott goes to meet them from where he is standing, hands raised in both greeting and supplication as the strange pair notice him coming.

Derek’s gaze narrows and he sees the world through a film of red as Scott moves forward to greet the pair, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Derek is following him while barely reigning in his rather considerable temper.

Who in the Hell had decided to send a _boy_ to a battlefield?!?

What had this youth _possibly_ done to merit such a punishment?!

The man with him seems more monk than master, with the steadying hand he has on the young one’s shoulder and the way that the boy doesn’t flinch under the touch, but Derek is well versed in the art of appearing calm while a storm rages within.

Not that it seems to be working right now…

“What in the Devil’s name is _this_?”

Scott halts in his greetings to give Derek a puzzled expression, but Derek is too busy trying to find some fault in the wide amber eyes that have stayed on him since he opened his mouth, the innocent face that looks far too young to have even _left home_ , much less found his way to a damned war ground!

“This is Father Deaton and Friar Stiles, Derek, from our home in England. They have come here to care for the wounded and make sure that the fighting does not drain our companions’ spirit.”

Scott smiles at the pair like their presence is a gift and, for him, it _is_ ; this is not the first time that Derek has wondered how someone as kindhearted as the man leading them ever decided that he wanted to be a Templar-or rather, that he decided to be assigned to this particular battle-but there are pressing matters that demand his attention.

“The Church decided to send even _more_ fools here?” This question makes the boy- _Stiles_ , whatever kind of name _that_ is-frown at him, but he’s too enraged to care about the hurt feelings of this _child_ or the fact that his anger is drawing shocked looks from Scott as well. “Haven’t they realized yet that God forsook this place years ago?”

“God would never abandon His children!” Stiles looks furious at Derek’s words, stepping out from under Father Deaton’s hand and glaring at Derek like he is the child that needs to be reprimanded, despite the fact that he has to tilt his head to look Derek in the eye. “He loves them and protects them, the fact that you are standing here now is _surely_ proof of this!”

Derek laughs at that, loudly and harsh, seeing the way that it makes the Friar flinch and Scott move forward as if to intercede, but Derek is speaking before he can take another step. “The reason I’m still alive is because your so-called ‘God’ has a hellish sense of humor and delights in punishing me.”

“God would _never_ punish one who did not deserve it.” There is a note of petulance in the boy’s voice now and his tone suggests that he clearly thinks that Derek is one of the few that deserve punishment, despite having only just met him. As a matter of fact, he looks ready to hurl more abuse at Derek’s head even as Father Deaton is warning him off with a call of his name, and Derek cannot help but scoff at the evidence that he is talking to a snot nosed _brat_ that has **_no idea_** as to what he’s dealing with.

“Of course He doesn’t, Job _must_ have done something horrible in his past to have all that pain inflicted upon him, and the People of Israel _deserved_ to wander the deserts for not having a better leader,” Derek can see Scott shaking his head at him, so he decides it’s time for him to depart and not fuel this strange anger that has taken ahold of him. “Perhaps I should reread my Bible; I have _obviously_ missed something that would explain that degree of punishment for His children. A good day to you both.”

The men that have lingered behind quickly scatter in the face of Derek’s sudden wrath and he would feel something at having upset them if the boiling under his skin wasn’t frothing his thoughts into violent urges that make him wish that the fighting had only begun instead of just ended for the day...

He hates how baby faced the recruits have become, not a scrap of a beard or deepening of a voice within the lot of them, more children than old men seen lying on the cold, unyielding ground crying for someone to end their torment when the horns have sounded and they are allowed to gather their dead. The fact that the Church has sent someone to care for those that are struck down or injured is not the problem-by the last of what he holds holy; Derek knows they _need_ it-it’s the fact that they sent someone so _young_...

Making it to his tent on the outskirts of the encampment, Derek begins stripping himself of his armor, remembering the gleam he had seen in the Friar’s eyes before he had begun to speak. It had been the same gleam he had seen in a thousand of recruits’ eyes before the fighting had knocked it out of them, a light that said that there was excitement to be had here, that there was glory, honor.

That this was all some sort of _adventure_.

It made Derek **_sick_**.

“Do you really hate the Lord so much that you believe you only live for Him to torment, like a boy pulling wings from a fly?”

Derek startles, his chest plate clattering to the ground, spinning on his heel to face who spoke with his blade in a defensive position. He had been too wrapped up in his thoughts to hear anyone approaching and was not going to let them come at him unawares now that they had announced themselves.

Thankfully, depending on how you looked at it, his would-be assailant is only the Friar, who once again trips backwards and falls, this time with no one close enough to stop his ass from meeting the earth with a hard thump.

“Sneaking up on people in the middle of a war is a really stupid way to get yourself killed, boy,” Derek growls, sheathing his sword and putting it to the side before going over to the Friar to offer him a hand up.

Ignoring the hand offered to him with a glare, Friar Stiles pushes himself to his feet with an alarming amount of anger, making Derek step back to avoid knocking him over again. “I have it on good authority that I am utterly incapable of being quiet, so it is not my fault that you were startled, Templar.”

“Maybe you should not have followed me in the first place, considering that I had walked away from you with no intention of speaking anymore, so it is not my fault my inattention almost got you a sword through your gullet.” Derek snaps back, making the younger man flinch as he picks up his chest plate and begins inspecting it for dents or breaks, completely ignoring the irritated huff behind him as he makes sure one of the few things that keeps him alive is still whole under his hands.

There are a few moments of blessed silence before the Friar sighs heavily as he mutters something no doubt insulting to Derek’s heritage behind him, causing Derek to roll his eyes as he sets his armor in the alcove beside his bed before turning back around to face Friar Stiles; his tent is small, he hasn’t gone that far.

“Speak up, boy.”

That gets him another mutinous glare as lips twist to an annoyed huff before the Friar slowly states, as if he was speaking to some sort of infant, “I said, you never answered my question, Templar.”

It takes a minute of thought before Derek can even remember what it was that the Friar had asked him when he first entered the tent, which makes him sigh as he leans against one of the steadying posts with a slight frown on his face, coming to terms with the fact that the man before him has done nothing to deserve his anger and that he cannot help what he does not know.

“I... am not without my faith, Friar, if that is what you are asking.” Stiles’ gaze stays steady on his, somehow encouraging him to continue speaking in a way that Derek finds easy to do so, despite his normal disinclination to share anything about his past. “It is simply hard to believe in a just and righteous God when you’ve spent the better part of the day picking His children’s corpses off a battlefield.”

“Those were only their Earthly shells, Templar,” Stiles’ voice has softened, offering a comfort that Derek cannot have, does not have any claim to as his eyes drop to the flattened ground beneath their feet, remembered pain twisting his lips into a grimace. “They are with our Father now and suffer no more.”

Words that he has heard before, more often than not coming from his own mouth as he dictated letters to homes that no longer held fathers, brothers, sons... “An empty reassurance to loved ones and companions left behind.”

“Would you rather have them broken and suffering, then? Hobbled and unable to care for themselves, driven to wish that they had died, that someone was steady and quick enough with a blade that they could halt their torment?”

Surprised at the pain in the Friar’s voice, Derek’s gaze darts up from the ground, but Stiles’ eyes are the ones that are looking away now, his hands a twisted knot in front of him as the breaths that past his lips shorten and skip.

It reminds him of boys that had never seen the horrors of war before, the way they panic and run at the blood and carnage, getting an arrow in the back or a sword in their side for their troubles. Derek is even more certain that this is no place for the Friar if even the talk of death makes him act so, but is also is saddened by the knowledge that this boy has fought his own battle before he even stepped foot on this cursed soil.

“Illness?” He asks, his voice abrupt enough that the Friar is taken out of whatever memories that have ahold of him as he looks at Derek with shock; it stings a little, because Derek was never good at comfort even before the years he spent wiping other men’s blood off his brow, but Friar Stiles is speaking before he can do any more damage.

“Yes, a- a wasting sickness that pulled her sanity away even as it killed her.” The words seem to come without any thought on the Friar’s part and it keeps Derek from asking just who the ‘her’ is that the man speaks of.

Yet, because Derek is clumsy with everything unless there is a sword in his hand and an order being given to him, he still asks, “Did the fact that she is with the Lord now stop the pain of losing her?”

The boy surprises him, however, with a dark chuckle that says he knows what Derek is trying to say and is not amused by it, but instead of getting angry like Derek thought he was going to, Friar Stiles simply states, “Not at the time. I do believe I told the doctor a few things he could do with both God and his faith. Not all of them were polite and earned me a box about my ears from my Father.”

“Deaton does seem like the kind of man that wouldn’t take kindly to that.” Derek mutters, not happy to know that the man was the kind that disciplined with a heavy hand.

“What? What do you-” Friar Stiles looks confused for a few seconds before realization dawns and he is waving his arms about in denial, the sleeves of his robe falling over his hands as he does so. “Oh! No, I meant my father, not my Father. I mean, the man who raised me and cared for me before I entered the parish, not afterward.”

“And what does he think of you helping those on the front lines?”

For the first time, Stiles looks slightly abashed and cannot quite meet Derek’s eyes as he mutters, “He isn’t too fond of the idea, despite the fact that every Templar is precious to our Lord and needs every care.”

Something comes together for Derek that sheds light on the strange man in front of him, remembering his own need to see his father safe. “How soon after you joining your parish did your father join the Templars?”

“My father was a Templar long before I decided to follow our Lord, Sir Knight,” That petulant tone from before is back, making Stiles seem much younger than he is as he crosses his arms in front of his chest. “I’ll admit that my father being in harm’s way was the reason I learned the healing properties of various plants and salves, but my reasons for joining the parish were of a more... personal nature.”

“Which were?”

"Why am I the one answering all the questions? Why don't you tell me what your reasons for joining the Crusades were, Templar?"

"Penance for killing my family."

The Friar’s reaction to his statement is nearly the same as everyone who ever asked and found the answer not to their liking; his eyes widen and Derek can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows before croaking out a terrified, "What?"

"After all, what better place to send a murderer than a battlefield?" Friar Stiles loses what color there was left in his face at Derek’s words, making him feel childishly proud that he finally got this innocent to be aware of the danger he was in, even here, in Derek’s tent.

Especially here...

"I- I don't believe-"

"You said it yourself, Friar;” Derek interrupts, surprising himself by how much he did not want to hear the untruthful reassurances from this man and of what he had spoken of so easily already, “God would not punish one who did not rightfully deserve it."

There is utter silence save for the wind blowing through the plains as Derek stares at the boy in front of him, almost daring him to say the empty phrases that others often use when they hear of his past, the dull oft-repeated words that Derek knows are lies as surely as he knows his own heartbeat.

However, he does not get to hear what Stiles would have said, what empty comfort he would have offered, because Father Deaton is calling Stiles' name and the man in question jumps like he was just caught stealing sweets.

It just makes the knowledge that Derek is dealing with a mere boy all that more illuminated, reminds him of the softness of the Friar’s face and the understanding that despite whatever hardship that he went through in years past, Friar Stiles has wandered onto a battlefield with all the ill grace of a foal that has taken its first plodding steps...

A powerful urge to find the fastest horse they have and send it as far away from the front lines as they can get with the Friar astride it wells up underneath Derek’s breastbone, making him cross his arms to try to press it down, as well as keep from giving into the suddenness of this strange feeling.

The Friar, for his part, has made his quiet way back to the entrance of Derek’s tent and stands there for a few moments just looking at Derek almost as if he were studying the Templar. The shock has not gone from his face, nor had he turned his back the entire time he walked those few steps, but his voice does not shake when he finally opens his mouth to speak.

“I’m not afraid of you.”

Derek simply waits.

“Very well, I may be, but it doesn’t matter; for whatever reason you wish me to fear you, I do not believe your story of you killing your family, not with how you reacted to me when I first lay foot on this so-called ‘cursed ground’... and if you were so defensive of _my_ life, a complete and utter stranger to you, how could you possibly have taken the lives of those you held dear and loved?”

“Maybe it was not my hand that held the blade that ended their lives, but I as good as drove it into their hearts due to my foolish naivety,” Derek’s voice is the one that cannot go above a hoarse whisper this time as he watches the Friar take two quick steps back into his tent to lay a soft, warm hand on a sinner’s arm and offer something that Derek would never have looked for, nor thought that he could ever find, in this lifetime or the next:

“We can only know what is in our own hearts, Templar, and can only control the actions that those hearts drive us to make; another person’s actions are not your own, and neither are their transgressions. Only God can judge what you do, and what another may do, and only He can decide whether the sin is yours or not.”

Friar Stiles is gone before Derek can draw breath to rebuke his claim, to ask if it was even possible for someone like him to ever be forgiven, and all he can do is stare at the spot where the Friar's hand had lain, wondering at just who it was that the Church brought into this hellhole, who exactly was this boy that made him wonder for the first time in an uncountable number of years if his soul wasn’t as damned as he always thought...

\-----------------

Stiles stumbles as he leaves the Templar’s tent, his heart thumping in his chest faster than the rabbits that he and his father used to hunt as he marvels at the fact that he was not cleaved in half for his boldness, a lightness filling his head that makes him stop for a few minutes simply to catch his breath.

He’s not sure what possessed him to run after the enraged Knight after he had basically stomped over and bellowed at the mere fact that Stiles was standing there, an act that usually only happened _after_ Stiles has opened his mouth…

Yet, something about the way he had looked between the two of them made Stiles think that there had been more to it than the anger he had shown and it had made him intensely curious about the Templar, even though he spent the entire time they spoke fighting with the man.

So, ignoring both Father Deaton and the Commander's calls for him to not chase after the older man, Stiles had followed the retreating figure all the way to the Templar’s tent, intent on finding out what that was.

He wasn’t really expecting the sword that came sailing toward his face, no doubt intent on severing his head from his shoulders, but the ground catching him as he fell was as familiar here as it was back home.

The Templar thankfully stops the sword, but he can’t stop the sudden embarrassment Stiles feels at having someone see him make a fool of himself despite his best efforts, although the matter of him still breathing makes that feeling less intense.

The sight of the hand in front of him does nothing to quell the frustration that he feels at his rapidly growing body, however, he’s had to add more inches to the end of his robes three times now and cloth is expensive...

The annoyed snipe that the Templar throws at his clumsiness-in a softer voice than Stiles would have thought, given the growl that his voice held when he was yelling at them-has him on his feet, casting his own barb back before he can give the action any thought, something that earns him just as much ire here as it did back home.

Breathing in deeply, he knows that he shouldn’t be shouting at the man if he wants to talk to him seriously, so Stiles takes a moment to look over the Templar and the way that he holds himself, questioning the claim he had made earlier about simply being a plaything for a deity that enjoys his torment.

Something he apparently speaks aloud, earning him another snap from the dark haired Templar - what had the Commander called him? Darren? Daniel?-that had him sighing in frustration and repeating the question in a tone the man can hear, hoping that this time he will get an answer that doesn’t end with him being thrown out of the man’s tent.

Surprisingly enough, the Knight regards him for a moment in silence, allowing Stiles to take in the fact that outside of his armor, the man doesn't look as intimidating, nor as broad; that isn't to say that he isn't well built, nor does his beauty rest in just his form, what with eyes that seem to shift in color with the dim light of his tent...

Stiles had mentally rebuked himself as the other man began to speak, cursing his weakness and the sickness that he had hoped joining the Church would purge from him, that he believed that he had been rid of until the moment that the Templar had pinned him with those multihued orbs.

Thankfully, the following conversation had put all thought, both pure and not, from his mind; that, and the sudden, crippling panic that always takes ahold of him whenever he thinks of his mother and her final moments, the sickness that made her memory vanish as her thoughts caused enemies to appear in the stead of loved ones...

“Stiles!”

Startling at the sound of his name, Stiles _barely_ manages to keep from meeting the ground for the second time that day, grinning at Father Deaton as he strides up to meet him, the Commander the very face of concern beside him.

“Ah, Father Deaton, there you are!” Stiles gives the Father his most innocent smile, something that hasn't worked since he used it on the man that helped bring him into this world, and this time is no different.

“I hope that you grow out of the need to run away from your duties whenever they bore you, Adept Stiles,” Deaton’s voice is the same placid rumble it always is, but the words still cause Stiles to fight off the need to apologize; while it is true that he needed to pay better respect to his teacher than running off all the time, there was something about that dark-haired Templar that had pulled at Stiles, that had only strengthened after speaking to the man.

“I wouldn’t blame Friar Stiles for wanting to have words with Derek, Father Deaton; there are more than a few people under his command that wish they could speak as freely to him as your Friar did. If I were a betting man-which I’m not, I assure you!-I’d wager there are a few stories of what happened going around the camp right now!”

Commander Scott becomes his favorite person when he speaks: for taking the attention off of him, letting Stiles know that he might have instilled awe in some of the men before he even met them, and finally giving him the name of the Templar that he spoke to:

Derek. Shortened form of Dederik, from the German, meaning ‘chosen king’ or ‘ruler of the people’. A good name for the captain of God’s warriors, the leader of the Crusade into the Holy Land, and someone who certainly looks like he could have been a king in another life...

Shaking his head slightly, Stiles listens as Scott speaks to Deaton about the preparations that have been taken to make sure that they are as comfortable as one can be on a battleground, calling out greetings and encouraging words to nearly every soldiers they pass which prompts Stiles to ask, “I understand that you don’t command a large group, but I find it astounding that you seem to know all of your soldier's names by heart!”

This causes the Commander to nod in a rather eager manner, a light flush across his cheeks as he mutters, “I led a command with these men only this morning, so most of them are ones that I have spent a considerable time with; but it’s also important for the men to know that their Commander knows who they are, that he cares about them and that they’re not just nameless faces to him.”

As sweet as the words are, they make Stiles roll his eyes as he sees the way that Deaton preens at the Commander, knowing that the days ahead will be filled with constant comparisons between the two of them, with Deaton making Commander Scott the paradigm that Stiles would have to measure up to.

Watching as the men surrounding them seem to relax a minute bit at Scott’s words and even smile back at their Commander, Stiles can’t feel bitter about that thought, hoping that this means more of Deaton’s attention will be on the other man instead, leaving time for Stiles to breathe every once and awhile.

Perhaps even give him time to talk with a heavy-hearted Templar who believes he’s been forsaken by God...

The thought makes him let out an exasperated huff of breath that earns him a quick look from Father Deaton that does not bode well for Stiles, but the man is easily distracted by the Commander asking about what has been happening in England since the Crusades have begun, and Stiles is left alone to fight with his unruly thoughts.

It is a puzzle why his thoughts keep returning to the man he barely spent an hour with, but there is something about him that makes Stiles want to find out more; more of what brought him here, more of why he looks so defeated even after coming back from a successful battle, more of why he looked like Stiles’ words before he left the tent had been a dagger to his heart instead of the comfort that Stiles had offered...

The only man that could possibly tell him that is Derek, who no doubt will be avoiding Stiles after their last conversation, and Commander Scott, considering he is the one that all of the men answer to.

Shaking his head, Stiles follows Father Deaton as Commander Scott leads them to their tent, apologizing for not having anything better and wishing them a good night.

If there was any chance of him asking about Derek and not having his request repeated back to Deaton, Stiles would gladly ask Scott all the questions that are bounding around in his skull, but something tells him that the Commander is more prone to abiding to the rules than Stiles himself is and would be unable to keep such a thing as this secret.

“I trust that you had an interesting conversation with Sir Derek, Adept Stiles.” Deaton intones rather ominously for a man who rarely gives into any emotion that Stiles can discern, cutting into his thoughts and effectively bringing him back to this moment in the present.

“You heard the man’s rather... controversial outlook, Father.” Stiles replies, moving to the opposite side of the tent and contemplating which side he should lay his bedroll, only to realize that he had left it in the carriage they had arrived in. “I felt it needed a closer examination and perhaps he needed a differing of opinion to compare his own to.”

“Is that so?” Deaton pauses from his perusal of their tent to pin Stiles with a look he has no troubles reading, “Did you, in fact, change his mind?”

“I believe I gave him something to think about and perhaps a brighter outlook for his life, despite the circumstances we find ourselves in.”

“I see.” There is a pause in the conversation as the man who drove their caravan shows up with the rest of their supplies, stating that he hopes that God will keep a closer eye on their men now that they are there before wishing them luck as he leaves. “That is all that the two of you... ‘discussed’ while you were in the Templar’s tent?”

“Yes, Father Deaton. Sir Derek and I have slightly different theological standpoints and as I said before, you heard his rather vocal opinion on God and the Church; I was curious as to why he spoke of it so vehemently. You know how I am when I find something curious...” Stiles decides not to mention the way Derek had softened when they were alone, or the reason he gave for being in this war in the first place.

_Penance for killing my family._

_After all, what better place to send a murderer than a battlefield?_

It is accurate that he may have been altering the truth a bit when he said that he was not afraid of Sir Derek, but he was not speaking anything but honestly when he told the Templar that he did not believe Derek killed his family, that there was another reason the man was here and that there was something else that made him feel so tormented.

_Maybe it was not my hand that held the blade that ended their lives, but I as good as drove it into their hearts due to my foolish naivety._

Guilt was a powerful reason to throw yourself headlong into battle, guilt and the belief that one deserved to be punished. Stiles was no stranger to the things that men did when they believed they were at fault and needed to atone for it, no matter how innocent they were of the crime they supposedly committed...

“I see. Well, I think it may be in your best interests if you avoid any more of these ‘discussions’ with Templar Derek.”

That tone right there is the reason that Stiles does not tell the Father all that was spoken in Derek’s tent, that he would avow Scott to keep any questions he were to ask from the man as well; Deaton believes that he is giving into the desires that drove him to the Church in the first place and will hear no words about it being anything else, which frustrates Stiles because that is not what this is.

There is something about Templar Derek that calls to him like a siren’s song, a sadness and painful resignation that he seems to carry on his shoulders like the Greek story of the world-bearing Atlas, and it hurts that Stiles can clearly see this after only spending a few moments in Derek’s company.

How can the men who fight beside him, who guard his back day in and day out, see that pain and do nothing?

They are in the middle of a war, a more rational part of his mind supplies, a calming tone that reminds him of the man that raised him, that is fighting his own war closer to home. There are certainly more important things to pay attention to than a fellow soldier’s demons when you’re fighting your own, both on and off the battlefield.

“Adept Stiles, are we in agreement?” Deaton is giving him a look that Stiles has seen a thousand times before, a look that says that he expects to be obeyed without question and one that he really should know better than to use, because it always causes Stiles to do the exact opposite of what is ‘requested’ of him.

“I’m afraid we are not, Father; Sir Derek is clearly in need of spiritual guidance, and I feel it is our duty as Men of God to help those who need it, even if they do not believe they need nor want it at the time.”

There is a long, heavy silence in the tent as Stiles sets to rights his belongings under the unwavering gaze of his mentor, hoping that the man does not fight him on this, yet knowing that he would listen if the man insisted and that was because of one simple reason:

There are only a few things that Stiles hold as dear to his heart as a promise he had made to his father, the man who raised him and loved him despite his... flaws, and before leaving home, the older man had made him promise to listen to Father Deaton as if he was the parent.

Perhaps even more so, he had amended with a crooked smile and a warm embrace that had brought tears to eyes that refused to let them fall.

Stiles could not break that vow just because he had found someone that made him feel as if there was a pain there that needed to be soothed, a wound that no one else could see and that only _he_ could heal...

After what seemed like an eternity of waiting and wondering what the man’s verdict would be, during which Stiles must have rearranged the healing salves and poultices in his bag at least three times over in an effort to still his twitchiness at the silence, Deaton finally speaks up with a heavy sigh, “Very well, Adept Stiles, as you wish. I will defer to your reasoning on this, but if there is trouble with the man, I will hope that you have enough common sense left to keep yourself to _yourself_. Understand?”

Not trusting himself to speak, lest he somehow give away how much he wanted the opportunity to get to know Templar Derek better, Stiles simply nods his agreement and sets to gathering the supplies he knows they’ll need for the medical tent in the morning and keeping the grin on his face pointed away from the Father.

Deaton sighs heavily and sets about getting his own needs squared away, leaving Stiles to his own thoughts, as troubling as they are; it’s not that there wasn’t any need for Deaton to worry about Stiles getting himself into trouble, as there had been a moment in Sir Derek’s tent that the old hunger had reared its head, but Stiles doesn’t want that now and has not wanted such a thing for a long time.

It was simply an appreciation for a beautiful man, a hidden treasure that Stiles had not been expecting, a masterful sculpture of God’s handiwork in the middle of a valley of bloodshed and death.

Nothing will come of it, for Stiles gave up those urges the moment he entered the Church and even if he still held those types of desires, it would be nigh on impossible to think that Sir Derek would also be the kind of deviant that thinks of broad shoulders and a tapered waist instead of curves and softness...

“This will be far different than the streets of England, Stiles, so it might be best for both of us if we get our sleep now.”

The words pull Stiles back to his present situation and the horrors that will come on the morrow; he has never been anywhere near a battlefield, the closest he has is when a caravan brought soldiers from the frontline to the hospital that he had been working at, and now he’s in the middle of everything with only thin cloth walls to defend himself.

Thoughts of every way that this could end in his death, how the news would devastate his father, and the constant question of all of this was really worth it to rid himself of the sin that marred his soul bound through his skull as Stiles settles on his pallet, listening to the soldiers calling out to each other as the day ends with a post change.

A prayer of steadiness for the day ahead, as well as a request for the Lord to keep his eye on his father and the men he fights with, whisper past Stiles’ lips before he slips into what he knows will be the last restful sleep he will have for a good long while.


	2. A Conflict Of Ideals

The following days have Derek seeing a lot of Friar Stiles and his mentor, even though the man makes no attempt to try to converse with him again or even spend any allotment of time in his presence, and Derek is at odds as to whether he’s pleased with that or not.

On the one hand, it means that the Friar is paying attention to the men that both need and _want_ his care, that he is spending as much time as possible away from the forefront as he can.

On the other hand, Derek finds himself _wanting_ to speak to the younger man, to be close to the presence that makes him feel as if it is possible for him to be forgiven of the sin he has carried for most of his life...

That kind of thinking is dangerous and he knows that it will all come tumbling down around him as soon as he lets himself truly believe it, so Derek tries to avoid the Friar every time he sees him. He even goes as far as to decline the invitations to the Mass that Friar Stiles and Father Deaton hold so many times that they finally stop coming.

The next time he and Friar Stiles are forced to speak to one another again is when Derek and his men manage bring a prisoner back to camp.

The man spits insults and curses the entire way, struggling as hard as he can despite both his arms and legs being bound, much to his other captors’ amusement.

Derek always hates this part of the fighting; give him an enemy he can fight face-to-face, an opponent that he can stand against and at the end of the day, the winner is the one that is stronger, faster, more knowledgeable in his skill.

He abhors the subterfuge, the underhandedness of their ‘questioning’, the need to capture one of their enemies to ‘gather information’ and the fact that he has to be there to both make sure that the enemy doesn’t escape, as well as to make sure that his men don’t get ‘overzealous’ in their need to find out what their foes are thinking.

To complicate things even further, his luck decides that this is the time that he cannot shake Friar Stiles off, as the man appears just as the men are binding their prisoner in a spare tent, their eyes alight with a dark intent that turns Derek’s stomach so much that he doesn’t realize that they have a guest to this little charade until it is too late.

“Templar Derek, what is going on here?”

Startling both at the voice and the way that the man in question says his name, Derek slowly turns to see the Friar is looking at the man bound to the tent pole like he’s unsure why the prisoner is there, yet there is also a gleam of partial understanding in his eyes as well, something that seems to be to his disliking, “Why is that man bound so cruelly?”

“We’re going to ask him a few questions about what he and the other scum we’re fighting are up to.” One of the men-Derek believes his name is Aidan, the elder of twins-that dragged their prisoner inside the encampment answers, a grin that has nothing to do with humor splitting his face as he looks down at the man in front of him.

The man himself glares back with a expression of defiance that just makes Aidan’s grin sharpen, “You might want to wait outside and pray that he talks quickly, Priest, not that it will do him any good...”

“Derek...?” The softness of his name causes something in Derek to snap as he grabs the Friar by the arm and bodily removes him from the tent, only to release him as soon as he can. Derek turns back to see to their prisoner as soon as he can, his eyes downcast to avoid the condemnation he knows he will see.

“Go back to Father Deaton, Friar. There is no need for you here.”

“Derek,” The Friar’s voice stops him as efficiently as any blade would, but there is a moment of silence before the man can find the words he wishes to speak. “Are they going to torture that prisoner in there? Is that why you do not want me anywhere near here?”

The naivety of his question brushes up against the disgust that Derek feels at these proceedings and his voice comes out harsher than he originally intended. “This is a war and he is our enemy, probably responsible for killing hundreds, if not thousands, of our men. We need to find out what their strategy is and I don’t think asking politely is going to get us anywhere.”

A soft noise behind him, almost lost under the first cry of pain coming from the tent, is his only answer before Derek enters the darkened space in time to see Aidan draw his fist back to strike again, making his stomach twist at the sight.

“Have you even bothered to ask any questions, or have you forgotten that you are a Templar and a man of God?” The words are like poison dripping from his lips, making his stomach roll and Derek has to fight back a sudden bout of nausea as he sees blood dripping from their prisoner’s eye; he was only absent for a few scant moments… “We are the right arm of England, not some horde of brigands off the streets!”

Aidan stops his assault to throw a sneer over his shoulder in Derek’s direction, the other man-Daniel, Derek believes his name is-looking between the two of them like he is unsure whether to step in or not as Aidan hisses, “What are you _talking_ about? These people deserve _nothing_ but our contempt and you’re telling me to go easy on this piece of shit? Why the hell should I?! Is it something that little Bible lover said? Has he turned your head with his talk of forgiveness and compassion? He’s a Church-loving shirt lifter, only good for warming his Father’s bed! What the hell does he know about war?!?”

The comments about Friar Stiles angers Derek for some reason that he doesn’t look at too closely as he retorts, “We may be at war, but that doesn’t give us any right to forget who we are! You will refrain from turning into a wild animal and biting at anyone who shows a hand to you, Templar Aidan, or I will remove you from this tent myself!”

The man’s face twists and he takes a step toward Derek before he is halted by Daniel’s hand on his shoulder as he begins whispering softly, an obvious attempt to calm the temper of his fellow soldier.

Yet, it is only a moment before Aidan is angrily slapping Daniel’s hand away and marching forward until he is face-to-face with Derek, an ugly look about his features that makes the older man brace himself for any blow that might be thrown his way.

“You’ve always acted like you were above all this, like getting information from these sons of whores was beneath you, so now you’ve decided that those of us who get our hands dirty are animals?” Aidan pushes closer, his chest brushing against Derek’s, making him grimace and the other man’s sneer darken when he catches the movement. “What gives you the right to judge me for something you’re too much of a coward to do?!?”

“Aidan!”

Daniel reaches out again, this time with plenty of anger of his own, to pull his friend back to the post the prisoner is bound to; the man is watching the proceedings with a surprised look on his face, eyes darting from Derek to Aidan and back again, but doing nothing aside from that.

“You speak out of turn; Sir Derek is your commanding officer and deserving of respect! You know that his word is law on the field-”

“On the field, yes, he commands my respect and that is the only way he will get it. Here, he is no more than another blade to be ordered about!” Aidan spits on the ground when he finishes, barely missing Derek’s boot, before removing himself from Daniel’s hold and shoving past Derek with a snide, “Go ahead and try to find out what they’re planning without my help, and don’t come crying to me when all you get is infidel curses!”

There is silence in the tent after the man leaves, Derek not meeting Daniel’s eyes in an attempt to avoid seeing the contempt his compatriot showed-despite the fact that he had defended Derek’s actions-and it only broken by their prisoner asking something in a foreign tongue.

“What did he say?” Derek asks, glad to have something to focus on instead of the tension he still can feel in the air, Daniel’s silence adding its own weight as well. “Sir Daniel, what did he say?”

“He asks why you stopped Aidan from beating him, why you fought with him over something that we have done countless times before.” Daniel’s voice takes an uplift at the end, making it sound like he also wishes to know what made Derek stop Aidan as well, but his voice holds none of the hate and anger Aiden had spewed at him.

Only an idle curiosity that makes it a little easier for Derek to finally speak, a sigh preluding his words as he finally meets Daniel’s eyes. “Tell him that we are not like other Templars, that whatever treatment he received from others will not be done here, not now that Sir Aidan has left this tent.”

Derek prays that is still true as Daniel brokenly translates his words into their prisoner’s tongue, the man’s expression showing his distrust growing with each word. “That I hope that if I was ever the one bound in his camp, I would be granted the same curtesy.”

The man growls out something that has Daniel looking unimpressed at him when he finishes, and Derek can tell that the words were far from pleasant even before Daniel states, “Ignoring the rather colorful terms, some even _I_ don’t know the meaning of, he says he doesn’t believe anything we’ve said before or say now, and that he will trust a Templar the day his god descends from on high to fornicate with a pig.”

Derek is just opening his mouth to let the man know _exactly_ what both he and his god can do with that pig, when the tent flap rustles with the arrival of someone new to add to the headache he can feel forming underneath his left eye like the beat of a drummer’s call to arms.

Pressing over the spot in an attempt to ease the ache, Derek nearly blinds himself when he sees Friar Stiles enter with a bowl and a raised chin, wearing his defiance like armor as he stares Derek down.

“Seeing as your fellow Templar has left the tent, I hoped that I might be permitted to treat this man.” The Friar’s tone is the same as when he had claimed that Derek was one of those that deserved God’s punishment, and it causes something in his chest to twist even as the Friar is moving past him to the man bound at the post without waiting for his answer, their prisoner once more looking like he can’t believe what is happening.

Derek and Daniel’s expressions quickly match their prisoner’s when Friar Stiles greets the man in his own language, Derek quickly asking Daniel to translate as the Friar begins cleaning the man’s wounds, startled that the Friar knew enough to converse with the man so easily.

“ _Do not worry, I am not here to cause you harm. Is there any wounds or aches that need tending that you will let me see to?”_

_“You are not like the others.”_

_“No, I am not a warrior, I have not the stomach for it. I am a healer, I tend to wounds and other ailments.”_

_“Even those of your enemies?”_

_“All are equal in the eyes of God._ ”

The man’s laughter speaks more of disbelief than amusement, shifting in a way that has Derek almost immediately reaching for his blade, the man pausing when he catches the movement before settling again. “ _Your warrior does not trust me.”_

_“Like you said, you are his enemy; I doubt you would trust him if you had him at your own mercy._” There is a moment of silence before the back of the Friar’s neck suddenly turns red and he is stammering out his next words. _The Templar is not mine, stranger, I hold no authority over the men that are fighting here._

_“You are right that I would not trust him in my camp, but I still question the truth of your other claim._ ” The man looks Friar Stiles over as he cleans a wound on the man’s chest, wincing slightly at the compress being dabbed against his skin. “ _May I know the name of the man who cares for my injuries?”_

_“I am called Stiles. What is your name?_ ”

The man simply stares at the Friar as if he’s uncertain as to what the man is doing, something that Derek can completely understand, before stating, “ _My people call me Hamidat, young one._ ”

For the first time since entering the tent, Friar Stiles’ face twists into something other than concentration; disgruntlement. “ _I’ve not been a ‘young one’ for many summers now, I am ten and eight, no younger than you!_ ”

Startling, Derek can see that the Friar is correct; now that he is cleaned and bandaged, Hamidat looks no older than Friar Stiles himself, only a slight beard gracing his chin making him appear any older than the man caring for him.

It makes that sickened feeling from before come back at the thought that they were about to torture and possibly _**kill a young boy**_...

His only consolation is that Daniel looks as upset as he, the man interrupting the pair’s conversation to ask, “Why was someone so young trying to infiltrate our camp? What happened to his home?”

Hamidat flinches, as if he had forgotten that they were there, an angry hiss bursting past his lips when the movement jars against one of his bruises, the Friar making admonishing noises at him as he answers Daniel’s question, the ease that had settled over him from earlier disappearing as he practically spits the words out.

“He says that his home was burned down by invading ‘holy men’ and that he volunteered when he heard that there was a way he could stop the destruction from stealing someone else’s home.” Daniel stops when the Friar yelps out something that Derek doesn’t really need a translator to tell him is a rebuke for the words Hamidat chooses to use, “He says we’re lucky that we have him tied up, or we would be dead where we stood, healing touches or not.”

The Friar makes a small sound of disappointment at that and Derek can’t take it anymore; he reaches forward and pulls the smaller man to his feet, dragging him away from Hamidat’s defiant gaze and orders, “Make sure that he receives a decent ration of food and water, keep a man on watch outside this tent at all times, and allow no one to see him if they are not Commander Scott or myself.”

“Yes, sir.” is Daniel’s prompt reply, almost lost under Friar Stiles’ squawk that he can walk for himself, aided by nearly dropping the supplies he entered the tent with. “I’ll see that’s it done shortly.”

Derek nods at the man and makes his way to the other side of the camp, intending to let Father Deaton know that he needed to keep a closer eye on his charge than he has been, and that it would not be Derek’s fault if the boy ended up with a dagger through his throat.

No matter how much the thought made him tighten his grip on the Friar and increase his steps, as if he could protect him from danger simply by being faster than it.

\---------------

Stiles finds himself wondering if he will be exiting tents in a hasty fashion the entire time he is stationed here; it will undoubtedly build up muscles that he never seems to be able to grow on his own, but the feeling of Templar Derek’s fingers digging into his arm in anger is one that he is certain he can keep to this singular experience.

“Are you intending to rip off my arm and keep it as some sort of trophy if I do not walk fast enough, Templar?” His snappish words make Derek start and drop the limb as quickly as if Stiles had struck him, his expression no less angry, but it seemed to be directed at something other than Stiles, so he was going to count that in his favor.

“What did you think you were doing in there?” The way Derek says it has Stiles pausing for the first time before he speaks; it isn’t said with malice, or the note of insolence that usually follows when people think Stiles is wasting their time, it seems like Derek is actually curious as to Stiles’ actions and he stops the first response to answer with a bit more thought.

“I was aiding the man that you seemed as uncomfortable to have in that tent as I was.” His reply causes the Templar to flinch, something that makes his next question simply dart from his lips before he has a chance to reconsider his words. “Why did you become a Templar?”

Derek’s face is a study in frustration, brows furrowed so heavily it looked like a singular strand of hair. “I told you why; I am serving penance-”

“-for killing your family. Yes, yes, you have claimed as such,” Stiles would normally not wave away such a subject as meaningless, but the more time he spends with Derek or simply watching the man, the more he can see that Derek is not as he claims, no matter how hard he may try to act otherwise. “Yet, there are quicker ways to embrace death than as a soldier; you simply could have resigned yourself to the noose, or been committed to a prison cell or asylum. Instead, you are conscripted to fight, despite hating the thought of people coming here, and the act of extracting information has you shielding me from the mere sight of it.”

“You are no soldier, you need not to be subjected to that,” Derek is no longer looking at him, his gaze pointed to the distance and his arms are tightly crossed in front of his chest, something that tells Stiles his words have hit closer to home than most people have come. Instead of feeling giddy that he is right, his heart sinks at the knowledge that Derek is here because he seems to think he should punish himself... but _why?_

_**...not my hand that held the blade that ended their lives, but I as good as drove it into their hearts due to my foolish naivety.** _

“I was not far enough from the tent to miss the words you spoke to Templar Aidan, Sir Derek, nor miss the way he left only a few moments later.” A faint tensing of his shoulders is the only indication that Stiles receives that shows Derek is still listening to him, that he is hearing what Stiles is trying to say. “It seems that even some soldiers are not inclined to see an unarmed man get beaten as much as a man of God.”

“I suggest you not wander far from Father Deaton again, Friar Stiles, if you wish to make it home to your father when this war ends.” Now it is Stiles’ turn to flinch at the coldness that has overtaken Derek’s voice, his next words cut off as the man continues, “As you say, I am not the only soldier here and there are some that will not treat you kindly if you interrupt us again.”

Those are the last words Derek seems to want to say on the matter, for as soon as they have left his mouth is he turning on his heel and heading back towards where Stiles assumes his own tent is, considering he is walking in the direction of the very outskirts of the encampment.

“Stubborn as a Hellborn mule,” Stiles mutters, trying to makes sense of the miasma of frustration and guilt he can feel fighting for dominance, scratching at his shorn hair as if he could find the answer to why that man confuses him so if he just rubbed hard enough.

“By everything I hold Holy, I do believe that’s the first time I’ve ever heard a priest swear.”

Yelping, Stiles spins toward where the voice came from, nearly upending a blonde washer girl with a basket full of clothing as he tries to maintain his balance and not look more a fool than he already made of himself.

“It’s also the least graceful I’ve ever seen a priest be, as well!”

“I’m not a priest, I’m still just a Friar, so I can curse as much as I want...” The girl’s eyes seem to light up with an almost unholy glee and Stiles can feel his own lips curling into a grin even as he states, “Damn it.”

Her laughter causes a few passing Templars to look at them strangely, but Stiles ignores them in favor of joining in and reveling in the fact that there is someone here that still can find a reason to smile, despite all the morbid things that surround them.

“I am Erica Reyes, humble washerwoman and general misbehaver.” The woman-who Stiles now knows is Erica-states, shifting her laundry and waving one of her hands in an exaggerated curtsy when her laughter has dimmed down into giggles. Stiles feels like he can easily be friends with this woman, despite the fact that her next question is, “What do they call you, other than clumsy?”

“Well, if we are going by general nicknames, then I get called a lot of things,” Stiles retorts, catching and kissing the back of Erica’s hand, much to her delight, “and my proper name is far too difficult for most people to say, so you may call me Stiles.”

“Stiles, huh?” Erica repeats, nodding as she looks him over in a way that has a blush flushing his cheeks and her grin turning into something a bit more predatory, “You look like a Stiles; a little odd, but still adorable.”

Stiles rolls his eyes at the comment, something that he has heard all his life and lets him know that Erica is simply teasing him, but doesn’t stop the blush from still staining his cheeks as he retorts, “Seems like you know a few of my nicknames already...”

Erica snorts at that, her expression smoothing out as she asks, “Well, now that we’ve introduced ourselves to each other, may I ask what was making you curse in the first place?”

“How familiar are you with a Templar named Derek?”

“Enough to know that he’s honorable enough to believe a body when they say they’re just there to clean, and not for other ‘services’-”

“Templars are bound by a vow of chastity! Surely, they would not-”

“Things are different when men are stuck in the middle of a battlefield and there is no Grand Master breathing down their neck. You have certainly made a promise that you broke, whether intentional or not, before? For many of the men, that vow is simply one of those things.”

Erica waves away the look Stiles gives her and begins walking, Stiles easily falling into step beside her. “Concerning Sir Derek, while he may seem off-putting and stern, he has never given me any reason to hurl vulgarity after his retreating form.”

“You must have avoided any questions regarding his family or his reason for joining the Knighthood, or generally any question that relates to his personal life.” Stiles murmurs, thoughts still on Erica’s words about the men that surround them and the warmth that ebbs away some of the ire he feels at Derek when he hears that the man never indulged in the same deviancy.

Erica hums at the words, her expression losing some of its earlier cheeriness as she softly comments, “Yes, I have heard quite a few stories about where Sir Derek is from, why he joined the Knighthood and what made him so sharp with both blade as well as personality. It is a game for the men on some of their darker days, to see who can make up the most horrific or impossible tale to explain Sir Derek’s presence in their midst.”

“Does he have _no one_ he calls companion, no one that claims to be his friend?” Stiles desperately asks, stuck with wondering if it is only the vows he made to the Church that keeps Derek from falling on either is own or an enemy’s sword and leaving this sad existence behind him.

That question earns him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder that has him feeling like a small dog or some sort of pet, something he hoped he left behind with a certain girl from his hometown. “His men do respect him and follow him into the jaws of Hell nearly every day, but I doubt that any of them would say they would introduce him to their families or have a drink with him if they met after this Purgatory.”

This, Stiles _cannot_ understand; he has only known the man for a few days, has exchanged only a handful of words with him, and even he can clearly see that Sir Derek holds an unflinching loyalty, compassion strong enough to survive even this Hellhole, and enough self-flagellation to cover the entire Catholic Church twice over.

“Perhaps _I_ shall be his friend...”

Erica outright snorts at that, making Stiles look over at her in indignation that she waves away with an unaffected hand. “Not if speaking to the man has him stomping off like he’s looking for something to kill and leaves you cursing his name.”

“Which wouldn’t happen if he weren’t so fastidiously stubborn!”

“I doubt that friendship will change that; something tells me that stubbornness is part of his nature, not simply something due to circumstances.”

“ _How_ would you know that?”

“A woman’s intuition.”

This time it’s Stiles that snorts and begins to laugh, Erica giving him an affronted look for only a few moments before she too is giggling along, the pair of them no doubt making more than a few of the Templars wonder if the pair of them have lost their minds, but Stiles doesn't care; Erica is a breath of fresh air and someone that he can see becoming good friends with, if they manage to survive the coming months...

“I see you’re being as welcoming as usual, Erica.” A deep voice interrupts their laughter, bringing a light blush to Erica’s cheeks as she turns to face them, nearly dropping the laundry basket in her haste.

Stiles turns as well, grinning at the dark-skinned man walking up to them, Erica’s glare a warning and plea all in one as Stiles states, “I see you’re familiar with our lovely Erica as well, something I think you and I should speak about. I am Stiles, what should I call you?”

“Boyd.” is the rather informative reply and nothing else, even as Stiles waits for anything more to be said, only for the man to walk over to Erica and press a kiss against her forehead.

Stiles’ grin just grows wider at both the unspoken declaration and the soft sound that leaves Erica’s lips at the gesture.

Yes, there are _definitely_ friends to be had here, if Stiles is up to the challenge...

Good thing he’s always loved a challenge.


	3. A Bridge Between Us

Sadly, a friendship with Boyd only took a few moments of Erica insisting that they look after each other before the man conceded, something that Stiles still has a hard time keeping a straight face at.

Getting the man to like him on his own merits, however, was still a bit of a struggle, but Stiles was nothing if not persistent.

Surprisingly enough, it is through his friendship with Boyd that Stiles finally manages to break the silence between Sir Derek and himself; he was visiting the man-he worked at a blacksmith at the edge of the northern part of the encampment, fixing breaks in armor and making sure that they never ran out of swords, despite wanting nothing more than to make jewelry and trinkets for Erica’s enjoyment-when Derek stomps through to the forge, slamming what looks like the remnants of a sword at the larger man’s feet with a growl.

“I take it that you need me to repair that,” Boyd’s response is as dour as any that he has given Stiles, picking up the steel while somehow managing to keep from being bowled over by an enraged Derek’s pacing.

Derek’s response could only be described as a growl.

“Thank you for asking so politely, I'll have it done by the end of the day.”

Stiles cannot help the chuckle that slips out at that; Boyd’s unimpressed expression coupled with the completely unruffled way he meets Derek’s glare just drives how ridiculous the whole thing is and he gets in a few laughs before Derek is turning the same look on him, a startled one taking its place as soon as he notices who exactly it is he's looking at.

“What are _you_ doing here?”

“Watching a grown man throw a fit worthy of a small child.” Stiles quips, earning him another growl from the man in front of him and a snort from Boyd that makes him preen. “Considering this is the man that makes the weapons that keep you and your men alive, you _should_ be politer to him.”

Derek crosses his arms at glares at Stiles much like he did when he first came to the encampment, Boyd making no effort to make it seem like he isn’t watching the pair of them. “Boyd knows that I appreciate all that he does for me and the rest of the men.”

“Just because someone knows that they are appreciated doesn’t mean that they don’t like hearing it every now and again.”

“Well then, I’d appreciate it if you would stop telling me what it is that my men are feeling when they are perfectly capable of telling me themselves.”

Stiles can’t help it, he laughs at that, no doubt surprising both men with the suddenness of it as he leans over to clutch his stomach. It has been a while since he has had a moment of laughter and the fact that he doubts Derek was trying to be funny just makes it that much more humorous.

“I think you need to inform the Father that you’ve managed to somehow drive his Adept to madness.” Boyd’s calm rumble makes Stiles take a few moments to bring his wits about him, wiping tears from his eyes to see both men eyeing him warily, Derek looking far more concerned than Boyd seems to be.

“No, no, there is no need to alert Father Deaton.” Stiles holds up a placating hand as his laughter dims and he can breathe again, a tenseness in the other men’s shoulders telling him that he needs to explain himself before they decide to bind him where he sits. “Forgive me, it has been a while since I’ve had reason to laugh, it saw fit to have taken over me for a spell.”

Boyd shakes his head and returns to his work, leaving Derek to stare at Stiles for a few more minutes before also deciding that Stiles’ laughter was simply a release of tension and not a fit of madness, but still gazing at the Friar like he was unsure if he should leave him alone in a place where there were blades in every corner.

Stiles does his best to seem as unthreatening as possible, which should not be that difficult, considering that Derek has a considerable amount of both muscle and knowledge of arms against him. He still tries to hold as still as he can, in case Derek is still feeling the violent rage that drove him to the forge in the first place.

Derek’s gaze stays on him for only a few more moments before he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, muttering something under his breath that Stiles would almost be certain is a prayer for strength if it was anyone else…

“I apologize for my anger earlier, Sir Boyd. The men were in the midst of a battle with the enemy and a few blades snapped, nearly costing a few of our best men their lives.”

The melodic sound of Boyd’s smelting slips, the only indication to the man’s feelings on the matter, before he is sedately asking, “Are you questioning the quality of my work, Sir?”

Derek is shaking his head in denial almost before Boyd is finished speaking, something that eases Stiles’ own mind as well; he has seen Boyd’s work stand up against soldiers using them against the surrounding hills in fits of anger and not have a dent nor scratch upon them later, he _highly doubts_ that the blades would crumble under the assault of their enemies.

“No, it was a few ‘lucky’ blades from home, from men who have no doubt slackened in their work in order to gain more employment, and their greed was almost the end of a man’s life.”

“Thank God that they had you watching over them,” Stiles is quick to interject, wanting the anger that is quick to retake Derek’s features to disappear back into something more gentle, something that does not leave a furrow in his brow and ice in his eyes. “I have been told more than once by the men that you seem to be like an avenging angel; every time they slip or miss a strike, you are there to make sure a blade does not find a home in their ribs.”

“An angel would have managed to save _all_ of the men he looked over, not just the ones that were closest to him at the time.” Derek mutters, his eyes cast to the side and arms crossed in front of his chest, almost as if he is guarding himself from Stiles’ praise. “Unfortunately for my men, I am only human.”

“Still, I am certain that they are grateful to have you beside them both on and off the battlefield.”

“You haven’t been speaking to all of my men, then.”

“Sir Aidan’s words are not the words of all of your fellow warriors, as much as you want to believe they are.”

There is complete silence in the forge, even the rhythmic tapping of Boyd’s handiwork has ceased, and Stiles wonders yet again if he has somehow managed to fall upon some hidden wound that Derek carried. It makes a swell of compassion well in Stiles’ breast, even as he tries to suppress it, and he has to bite his tongue to keep from insisting that Derek is worth more than he believes himself to be.

It is only when another Templar enters the tent, a scrawny boy that would rival even Stiles in litheness, that Derek finally breaks his gaze away from tearing into Stiles soul as he greets the newcomer.

“Sir Isaac, how is Daniel?”

“Nothing more than a scrape that may keep him out of the fighting for a few days. His armor took most of the wound, something Sir Ethan should be grateful for, considering it was his blade that decided to falter.”

Stiles blinks at the venom in Sir Isaac’s tone, but then remembers Daniel as being the Templar that had been in the tent when he had spoken to Hamidat, and that the man had always been of a kind temperament even to those who had done nothing but speak ill of him.

“He has gone to Father Deaton, yes?”

Sir Isaac startles at Stiles’ question, but answers at Derek’s nod. “Yes, as soon as we made sure that he could walk, we went to the Father immediately.”

Stiles nods at the news, glad that Sir Daniel was not one of the more hardheaded of the Templar that believed that a hot poker and gritted teeth could heal all their ailments. He and Father Deaton had to tend to more than one infection and fevered Knight because of that line of thought, filling up the medicinal tent with profanity and unflattering remarks about the poultices they needed to drink.

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Stiles watches as Sir Isaac reports the status of his fellow soldiers to Derek, his spine so straight that Stiles’ back aches just looking at him. Derek also seems to realize there is a tension in Sir Isaac’s frame that makes him kin to the stakes holding the tent to ground, and murmurs something that has the boy’s shoulders loosen a touch.

Wishing there was a way that he could show Derek moments like this, moments when only a few words of comfort could help better his men’s moods, Stiles moves from his seat to Sir Isaac’s side as Derek claps a hand on the man’s shoulder and bids him good day.

“I have a quick question before you go, Sir Isaac.” Stiles’ voice causes Sir Isaac to startle, and he once again looks to Derek for approval before turning to Stiles.

“Yes, Friar Stiles?”

“I was hoping that you could settle an argument between Sir Derek and myself.” Sir Isaac’s brows raise at that, but he stays silent as Stiles continues, “The good Templar is under the impression that since he cannot save every man under his command, the ones he does save don’t mean as much-”

Derek finally unfolds from his closed off stance, his face a masterpiece in righteous fury. “I said _**no such**_ -”

“-and I had hoped, that as one of the men that he no doubt has fought beside and perhaps even saved on occasion, that you could make him see that the fact that he cares so much for his men and risks his own life for theirs is commendable, and unlike God, he cannot be everywhere at once.”

Derek looks ready to throw him in the smithy fire, Sir Isaac looks like he’s torn between wanting to flee or clap Stiles on the back for his bravery, and while he can’t be completely sure, Stiles is almost _certain_ that Boyd is now using his work to cover up the fact that he’s laughing at all three of them.

All in all, Stiles considers his request a valid one.

Thankfully, Sir Isaac manages to make up his mind and find his voice just as Derek is opening his mouth to undoubtedly curse Stiles far better than the Church ever could.

“Sir Derek has always been one of the better commanding officers that I have ever served under and, while his affections may not be as easy to see as Captain Scott’s have been, the men know he would gladly march into Hell’s gates in their stead. I don’t know where these delusions of his are coming from, but I believe Sir Derek knows better than to believe that his men hate him, despite what some of the more… temperamental of us may claim.”

Sir Isaac bids his leave with a bow, adding in a little smirk that Stiles knows to mean that there is some mischief in that man and he is one to keep an eye on, but Stiles is more interested in the completely flabbergasted look that has overcome Derek’s features ever since Sir Isaac began his little speech.

“Still believe that you mean nothing to your men?”

This time, Boyd’s laughter is unmistakable as Stiles follows Sir Isaac out of the smithy and meets the man’s smirk with his own smug grin.

Yet, the moment that makes him skirt as closest to feeling pride as he has ever felt since joining the parish, is hearing Boyd’s rumble of, “Something tells me that boy is going to keep you on your toes, Sir Derek, and that I’m going to be seeing you abuse my weaponry a lot more in the coming days.”

Sir Isaac’s snicker lets Stiles know that he had heard what Boyd said as well and, seeing an opportunity to learn more about the ebony-haired man that seemed determined to see the worst in himself, Stiles turns to the younger Knight with a hopeful expression that immediately slips off as soon as he sees the twist of Sir Isaac’s lips.

“I know as much about him as the rest of the militia, which is nothing save his name and rank.” Off of Stiles’ disappointed noise, Sir Isaac lets out a chuckle and shakes his head as he mutters, “Looks like I owe Erica that five pieces of silver after all…”

“What?” Stiles blinks at the mention of the lady’s name, a little surprised that Sir Isaac knows her. “How do you know of the Lady Erica?”

“I met her the same day that Boyd did, and I also know that her hearing that you refer to her as the ‘Lady Erica’ will make her laugh more than I have ever seen her laugh before.”

Stiles preens for a moment, happy that he would make one of the few people he considered friends here happy, before turning back to Sir Isaac with a suspicious tilt to his gaze. “Is that also how you knew I would question you about Derek’s background?”

“Yes, and if you would have held your tongue for a half moment more, I would be the one receiving five pieces of silver!”

“Well, Lady Erica deserves it more than you do, considering how well she knows me after spending mere hours in my company.” Stiles grins at the laughter that his response gathers, just knowing that he’s managed to gather another friend even as the frustration at missing an opportunity to learn about Derek settles in stomach as he continues to follow Sir Isaac back to the encampment.

Looks like he will have to ask the man in question again, and see if he is more willing to answer this time…

Stiles isn’t really fond of his chances on that score.

 

\----------------------

 

After their conversation at Boyd’s forge, a conversation that still makes Derek feel both angry and amused when he thinks back upon it, it becomes a common occurrence for Derek to visit Stiles in the medicinal tent whenever there has been no word from the scouts and their enemies have been silent for a few days.

He isn’t sure where the urge originally came from; a need to speak to the one person that managed to infuriate him more than even his… family had, or to try to figure out why Stiles seemed so determined to see the best in him when he knew that his soul was past saving, but it became a habit that Derek would be loath to break if pressed.

They have spoken of many things regarding Derek’s time at this battlefield and Stiles’ time at his parish, Derek offering more than he would if he had met Stiles in his village or at the bar for his nightly pint, a fact that doesn’t sit well with him when he examines it in the dark of his tent at day’s end and makes him wonder when he had grown so comfortable in Stiles’ presence...

Which makes him tenser than normal when he visits Stiles the following day and sees him open his mouth to speak, only to close it afterward as if he is afraid to release the words that have come to him.

It is so uncommon that Stiles _stops_ before he speaks that Derek also stops what he is doing to stare at Stiles in surprise, causing him to let out a little huff of amusement himself.

He still does not speak, though, and Derek is a moment away from just outright asking what is on his mind before Stiles seems to gather some courage and blurt out a fast paced expulsion that makes it difficult to understand him.

“Whereisyourhome?”

“What?”

Stiles grimaces at himself before stating in a slower and much more steady tone. “Where is your home?”

The question is no easier to answer even when he can understand what is being said, and Derek can only demand in frustration, “Why do you want to know such things?”

“Many of the men have spoken of where they come from, of where they will go and what they would do when the fighting is done.” Stiles is undeterred by the venom in Derek’s voice and this is just one of the many times that Derek is uncertain if it is because Stiles is unquestionably brave or unbelievably stupid. “You are the only one I have never heard speak of what would happen when they made it back home.”

“That is because I know I will not make it back home, charred remains that they are, and I do not delude myself by wishing for something that will never come true.”

There is a long moment of silence, the longest there has ever been during his conversations with Stiles, and Derek has to look over to the man to see if he has not wandered off somewhere:

He has not; instead, he is looking at Derek with such an expression of pain that Derek can only hold Stiles’ gaze for a few moments before he has to look away again, nearly biting through his lip in an effort not to apologize for his words, for not allowing Stiles to believe that there is something worth saving in him...

The wind billowing among the sands is the only sound to be heard, but even then it is almost impossible to catch Stiles’ softly whispered request, “Will you wish for me?”

Derek simply stares at the other man, trying to fight down the lump in his throat to answer as Stiles seems to take his silence as misunderstanding.

“I mean, I know that you just said that you do not believe in wishing for something that will never happen, and I do not wish to get into another argument with you about this when we are speaking civilly for the time being, but instead of thinking of this happening after the war, perhaps you can imagine meeting me before it and inviting me to dine at your home?”

“There were a line of rose blossoms in the yard leading up to the house.” Stiles’ mouth falls open as he blinks at him, no doubt just as shocked as Derek as the words that are coming from his mouth, but it is like a fallen dam; once they start, it is impossible to stop them. “My mother would laugh at the sight of us howling like hunting dogs whenever we stumbled on them because we weren’t paying attention to where we were going, would pick them every summer to fill the house with their heady perfume and make it nearly impossible to think of home without thinking of the scent of roses.”

It had made it nearly impossible to go into town, After, what with almost every shop on every street corner filled with flower bouquets and nearly every bouquet having a rose stem or two in them. He understands now, in the middle of a useless war, that it had been a way for the town to mourn the loss of such a prominent and beloved family. Derek could also admit that he was touched that they went to such lengths to pay tribute to them.

His mother had jested more than once that they would make a King’s Ransom if she could ever be parted from her beloved flowers...

“The house would have left even _you_ speechless,” Derek continues, eager to move past the memories that still leave a sharp ache beneath his breastbone in the remembering of them, focusing on the way Stiles snorts at his words, “I swear, you would have been hard pressed to speak of its greatness; it was made of red-brick and had stood there since even before my great-great-grandfather’s time, enough rooms to hold almost the entire regiment and still have space left over... I still remember every hide-and-seek spot, every hidden nook and cranny like they were lines on my hand...”

“You had a happy childhood.”

It is not a question, but Derek still feels the need to answer as if it was one. “I wanted for nothing, had every whim of mine catered to, but was still taught the importance of honor, civility, and the worth of every man, not only the nobility. I learned how to ride there, to read, and to fight...”

A sudden memory of Cora, her amber hair dancing in unruly wisps around her face, clothes in tatters that spoke of trees climbed and hills conquered as a defiant expression overcame her face when she argued with Laura, every hair and clothing always in its place, hits him and he can feel a soft smile twist his lips.

“My sisters were constantly bickering on whether they should also be learning the arts of combat and debate, with Cora always being so insistent that it was unfair that their sex should hold them back from being able to defend themselves. Laura, being the eldest, always had to sooth her temper and remind her that, while she agreed, she knew that letting Cora learn would lead to the most of the boys of the village ending up with bruises and lumps when they dared to be too forward with her... and Cora believed a simple ‘good day’ was too forward.”

Stiles grins at him and Derek allows himself a few moments of remembrance, of memories of teaching Cora in secret after she promised not to be too harsh on the boys that curried her favor, of laughing with Laura when their tutors got frustrated with the ‘wild and unteachable’ whirlwind that was their younger sister, of the playful fights when they ganged up on him to tease him for some offense or the other.

His mother had playfully despaired of them ever finding matches if they insisted on behaving like ‘wolf-raised heathens’ and bemoaned the knowledge that she had failed in bringing them up properly. Cora would always rush to their mother’s side, even as she claimed she would never wed if all she had to pick from where the idiots in the village, making their mother laugh even as she held her youngest child close.

Laura would always shake her head at the spectacle of her sister and claim that their fights were good practice for when a man finally caught her eye; if they were going to keep up with her, then they needed to have a fast wit and an even faster mind. Laura was like Cora in demanding a better pair than the first simpering simpleton that asked after her.

Derek was simply content to watch his family as his sisters dragged their mother into their playful debate, asking for stories of the man that had caught Talia Hale’s eye and had died not long after Cora was born, giggle-groaning when their mother went on to describe some of their father’s more _physical_ attributes.

Yet, like it happens every time he remembers his life Before, the memories turn sour as he recalls what happens next and his words turn brittle with regret, “I could tell you all about the way the floor stones in the kitchen were always warm because they faced the eastern sky, the way the entryway was so large that I thought I’d never grow tall enough to reach the top of it, or the way the walls always seemed to echo with the sound of my sisters’ laughter...”

Closing his eyes so that the burning behind them will not fall, Derek forces the rest of the words out into the silence like stones into a still pond. “I could regale you until the sun sets on everything from the wave of my mother’s hair, the curl of Laura’s smile, to the exact tone of Cora’s laughter. I could describe the exact shade of brown my favorite pup was to the tree in the back that had a hiding spot I shared with the squirrels that lived there, but it will not bring back all that I’ve lost and I have no use for games that have no meaning.”

Stiles’ gaze has dropped to the ground underneath their feet and he keeps shaking his head in short bursts, but he does not ask any more questions or offer any more words. It is starting to make Derek feel unsettled, this desperate quiet, something he can only stand a few moments more before he pushes himself to his feet and makes his way back to his tent.

He damns both the Friar for his questions and himself for being unable to keep from answering him.


	4. A Moment In The Chaos

The men usually arrived around the same time every day, so Stiles had become used to the sudden upswing in noise and general hubbub around the camp, going as far as ignoring the announcing trumpet and the rush from the men that stayed behind to meet the ones that have arrived.

The only reason that this particular returning had grabbed his notice was that this was the first time that they had called for Father Deaton, a stretcher between two of the men, a body too still for mere injury upon it.

Stiles has one moment of paralyzing, all-encompassing panic when the stray thought of _**Is that Derek?**_ drifts through his mind before he is practically leaping toward the returning men, all earlier plans forgotten as he flies down the hill he was on.

Father Deaton is there when Stiles makes it to the men, sealing his demand to know where Derek was in his throat, and he has to wait several moments before the men get close enough to lay the stretcher at their feet.

Kneeling down, Deaton reaches forward and lifts the helmet off the man’s head, revealing a smooth face and aquiline features, topped with a short mop of blonde hair.

Hiding his exhale of relief at the confirmation that this was not Derek in his sign of the cross, Stiles also bites down on the guilt that quickly follows. It’s not that he isn’t upset that there is a dead man at his feet, or that this is the first time he’s ever been present for the toll of this war to be shown, it’s just a little unsettling at how quickly Sir Derek has come to mean something to him.

“...ambushed over on the western hills, nearly didn’t have enough time to get our weapons out,” The man in question is giving his report to Commander Scott, whose gaze is fixed on the man that will fight no more, a sadness in his eyes as he nods to Derek to show that he is listening. “Stephen was the one that notified the frontmen, giving the rest of us time to gather and give those infidels a surprise of their own.”

“Thank you, Derek,” Scott sighs heavily, a hand coming up to rub over his face before he nods, “I will make sure that his family knows of Sir Stephen’s bravery, and of the men he saved with his sacrifice.”

“Sir, I really think I should be the one who-”

“Nonsense,” Scott waves away the rebuke before looking Derek in the eye and stating, “You have just narrowly avoided joining Sir Stephen in Heaven, Templar; rest, give yourself a moment to breathe easy. There will be battles to fight on the morrow, enjoy the quiet of now.”

Unable to see the expression that Derek makes at those words, Stiles cannot parse the look Scott gives him in return; it’s partially sympathetic, of that he can see, but there is also frustration and... perhaps sorrow?

Maybe he should ask him about Derek, no matter if his questions do get repeated back to Father Deaton, if only to find out why that expression only showed when he was looking at _Derek_ , of all people...

All of those thoughts are banished from his mind when Sir Derek turns and notices that Stiles is standing there, caught out staring right at the man.

Once more, Stiles is confused at the look that he sees; there is pain, at losing what sounded like a good man, the anger that resides there is also understandable, but for a moment-the exact moment when Derek realizes that it is Stiles he is seeing, as a matter of fact-there was a brief flash of shame.

A soft noise slips past his throat with no thought on his part, and Stiles is moving forward before he can stop himself, his arms raising as the need to hold the man flows through him, if only to ease the pain that he can practically feel coming from Sir Derek’s form...

Derek makes his own sound in response, a sharp denial that has Stiles’ hands dropping even as the Templar brushes past him, nearly upending him more from the turbulent emotions fighting for dominance than from the action itself and Stiles cannot stop himself from following the man yet again when he stomps away from him.

He pauses, however, before following Derek into his tent; no doubt, more than a few of the men have seen him running after the Templar, and they are probably questioning why he would follow someone who does not want to be followed-Stiles is one of them, so he really can’t answer that, as much as he would like to-as well as the ominous warning Father Deaton has given him about trouble and Derek, makes him hesitate to continue with one of his impulsive actions for the first time in his life.

A broken sigh, nearly inaudible over the winds blowing through the camp and yet loud enough to pull at his heart like a puppeteer's strings, decides for Stiles as he firmly squares his shoulders and enters the tent.

There is not a sound from Sir Derek, sitting on his bed with his head bowed in a parody of prayer, armor a dismantled mess around him that speaks to the state of his mind even more than his position does, and Stiles waits to speak even though he knows that the man had to hear him; he has told Derek before, he is not a quiet person, and what with how quickly he followed Derek, Stiles knows that he has to be breathing heavy enough to announce his presence...

Yet, this could also be much like the first time that Stiles entered Derek’s tent; the man could be too wrapped up in his own thoughts to notice anyone, or even expecting anyone of following him in the first place, so Stiles softly questions, “Sir Derek?”

It seems that the man knows he is there, he simply did not want to be the first to speak as he grunts out, “What do you want?”

“I...” Now that he is there, Stiles cannot think of anything to say that he believes the Templar would want to hear; that he wanted to hold him, to somehow will his pain away? That there was something about the man that made Stiles want to get to know him, find out every dark secret he held and sooth away his fears? That, despite what he thought of himself, the fact that he was sitting here like this proved that Derek had a caring heart?

That he might be falling into old hungers and wants to know if Derek would be willing to indulge in sin with him...?

Shaking his head at the traitorous thought when there are more important things to focus on, Stiles focuses on the man in front of him, the man that is clearly in pain even though he may claim otherwise.

It doesn’t take long for him to find something that he can do when he looks over Derek’s unarmored frame, eyes settling on his right side. “You are bleeding.”

It’s not a deep gash from what he can see, thankfully he will not need to call for Father Deaton due to his fear of needles that go as far as causing him to faint like a maiden, and he is moving over to the table on the other side of the tent even as Derek looks at him in bewilderment.

“What are you doing?”

“I am making sure that your wound does not get infected due to your inattention,” Stiles finds a pile of rags and a bowl of fairly clean water, making his way over to where Derek is sitting before kneeling beside him.

There is a sudden intake of breath, but when Stiles looks up, Derek is looking away from him and his voice is sharp when he asks, “Why do you care so much about me?”

“Why do _you_ care so little about yourself?”

Only silence answers his question, so Stiles sets to work. First, he makes sure none of the cloth from Derek’s shirt has made its way inside the wound, then he begins cleaning it with the water he found. This continues for a while, before Stiles runs into a bit of a snag.

“I need you to take off your tunic.”

Derek’s gaze snaps towards his and Stiles finds himself pinned by eyes not only the green he thought they were, but also a multitude of colors that he would gladly spend the rest of the night cataloguing.

“What.”

Swallowing past a suddenly dry throat, Stiles repeats, “I need you to take off your tunic.”

“Why.”

The fact that Derek’s responses are more order than question cut through a bit of the fog clouding Stiles’ mind and he can more easily say, “The cut goes higher than I thought, I need to make sure it is fully cleaned to keep fevers and delirium away.”

Another long moment of silence, during which Derek does not look away and Stiles fights to keep the heat he can feel in his stomach from showing on his face, before Derek is simply reaching down and pulling his tunic over his head without so much as a by-your-leave...

...leaving Stiles, who had his hands on Derek’s side to both clean the wound and keep himself from falling into the Templar, to feel every flex and bunch of his muscles as he tosses the tunic into a corner of the tent.

“Is that better?”

No, no, this is so much worse...

Not only can Stiles see more of Derek’s flesh, tanned from the time he’s spent fighting and working in the sun, but he can also see that this is far from the first wound that Derek’s been given and with how some of the scars are raised, he’s been as uncaring of them as he has been of this one.

“Friar Stiles?”

“Why do you still call me by my title?” That question is a safer one than the ones that Stiles wishes he could ask, the ones that demand Derek take care of himself, that he is worth more than what he thinks, and that if he will not, then he _must_ at least let _Stiles_ care for him. “The only ones here that still do so are Father Deaton and you, even _Scott_ calls me simply by my given name.”

“It... wouldn’t be right.”

“Why is that?” Stiles raises to his feet, the wound traveling up to Derek’s shoulder, not surprised the injury traveled so far. No doubt because Derek was shielding someone from an attack from behind, stubborn man. “I’m sure you call your fellows by their Christian names, not just their titles.”

“You are not one of my fellows.”

Stiles distracts himself from the hurt of that statement by glaring at Derek’s back, yet he is almost immediately forgetting those words by the discovery he manages to find there.

“You’ve marked yourself?!”

There’s a grunt from Derek and he makes to move, but Stiles has one of his impulsive moments again, reaching out and placing his hand on the mark, a thick triskelion, thumb caressing the bottom curl.

Derek stills under his touch and Stiles has only a moment to wonder if he really is going to get a sword through his gullet before the body under his hand leans ever-so-slightly into his touch as Derek softly states, “I received it the night my family died.”

_**I’m sorry.**_ He doesn’t say it, knowing that those words do nothing and are nothing in the face of that particular pain. _**I wish I could help you.**_ would be even less appreciated, given how Derek has treated all his other attempts at companionship, so he eventually settles on, “I just got raving drunk and made a spectacle of myself when my mother died.”

The surprised snort Derek releases tells Stiles that he made the right choice, as well as the fact that he can feel Derek lean even further into his hand, almost as if Derek was offering his own attempt at sympathy. “I’m sure your father understood and didn’t punish you too harshly.”

_**No, I punished myself enough for the pair of us.**_ “He was less than pleased, but no, I didn’t suffer too much from him.” Stiles slowly drops his hand from the Templar’s back, deciding not to push how far Derek would allow the touch before he grew suspicious. “Does it still hurt?”

“Just as much as the day it happened.” They both know that Derek is not talking about the mark on his back anymore, but there is nothing more to be added before Derek is asking, “Do I need to wrap this?”

“Yes,” Stiles nods, stepping away before he does something truly mad, like wrap his arms around Derek and press his front to Derek’s back in an embrace, as if he could use his body to shield the man from the demons that plague him. “I will go gather some from the medical tent and be back within the hour, if you are willing to wait a moment?”

He waits for Derek’s nod before leaving, his heart beating an unsteady rhythm as makes his shaky way across the fields and between the other Templar’s tents, wondering at what he was supposed to do with a man that wanted nothing yet made Stiles feel like giving him _everything_.

Even his soul.

 

\----------

 

There were only a few times when Derek was certain of things in his life, the majority of them happening when he was young and had the reassurance of a placating family to confirm his claims, and even then he was almost always certain of what he believed in.

So it was not lightly that Derek knew without a shadow of a doubt that he was a complete and utter fool.

After all, there was a dead man being carted off to his home with only a letter of apology for explanation as proof of his shortcomings...

Groaning, Derek makes to stand, grimacing at the way it pulls at his injury. Looking down, he can see that it has already begun to close and, thanks to the care that Stiles has put into it, the area looks clean and without debris.

Stiles...

Yet another reason why Derek was a fool; somehow, during their tumultuous conversations and the days of silence in between, he had found himself caring for the man.

There was no way to pinpoint the exact moment the boy went from someone that he wanted gone to someone he wished he could leave with, but there were a thousand small moments that he could see his feelings changing.

Hearing Stiles’ laughter blending with Erica’s the day the two of them met, the first time Derek has heard _real_ laughter in a _long_ time.

The way Stiles was steadfast in getting Boyd to like him, not knowing that the mere fact that Boyd didn’t immediately throw him out of his smithy the first time Stiles set foot inside spoke very highly of how much regard Boyd held for him, considering it took _Derek_ a few days before Boyd didn’t sigh every time he _stood in the doorway_.

Stiles’ constant chatter to the men as Father Deaton stitches them up, not usually one to pick up the needle himself, his stories almost as good as the laudanum the Father bade them to drink for distraction from the pain.

Hamidat.

Yes, seeing the way that Stiles interacted with someone who was supposed to be his enemy and still treating him with more honor than some of Derek’s own men was most certainly the starting point of when his perspective of Stiles changed.

Rubbing his brow, Derek sighed as he was reminded of their prisoner and the problems surrounding him.

The man still hadn’t given them any information on his superior’s plans and there had been more than one mutter of just ‘getting rid’ of him, leaving his corpse as a warning for his fellow warriors to find.

A few years ago, Derek would agree, would even be the one to volunteer to get rid of the infidel. That was back when anger and guilt had him believing that as dark as his soul was, there was no possible way for him to be forgiven and any other sins he committed since were nothing; now, though...

Now...

“Derek?”

Closing his eyes at the softness Stiles always seems to cradle into his name, a gentle inflection that somehow hurts every time he hears it, Derek takes a deep breath before turning to face the man looking at him in curiosity and the large bundle of cloth he holds in his hands. “Yes, Friar Stiles?”

Stiles heaves his own sigh before moving to stand over by Derek, setting the bundle on the table beside him, “I will need you to raise your arms, if you can, so I can wrap this around your chest properly.”

Derek obliges by promptly raising his hands, using the moment that Stiles starts to wind the cloth around his body to observe the man tending to him:

His hair has grown a few inches since he first arrived, a short amount not noticeable to anyone who has not spent time trying to find any way to mark the passage of time, and there seems to be a bit of muscle that bunch his robes around his shoulders every time that winds the cloth in his hands around Derek’s chest, which reminds him-

“You need new robes again.”

An aggravated huff is his answer as Stiles begins to wrap part of his arm to cover the tip of the wound on his back, moving Derek so that the hand the arm is connected to is resting on the Friar’s shoulder, filling Derek with an alarming urge to turn his palm to Stiles’ face in a caress.

“There is nothing I can do about that, Derek, not when there is much more needed here than my robes.” Derek is glad that Stiles is more focused on his work than the man he is tending, so that the smile that flits across his face when he hears Stiles still call him by his Christian name despite what he said earlier goes unseen. “I will simply have to add extra cloth when I find some.”

He’s not sure why he makes the offer, perhaps it is because Stiles has done so much for him and continues to try to comfort and help him despite his various brush offs and angry demands for him to cease.

No one has been so insistent on helping and seeing the best in Derek since his family, since he actually believed he deserved such care, and he is unused to the feeling that settles in his chest as he gruffly states, “You could wear one of my old robes.”

The offer makes Stiles startle, pulling the bandaging tighter than intended and Derek hisses out in pain even as Stiles loosens the binding, an angry flush lighting upon his cheeks.

“With my luck, I'll be taken as a Templar and slain before I walk a step, no thank you.” Stiles’ eyes stay focused on his work, but Derek can see a small smile teasing at his lips, so the offer is appreciated, at least.

The warmth that fills him at the sight of Stiles’ smile, however, is troubling. It is also the real reason why he will not call the man by name, given how close he feels to him in such a short amount of time, he will not sully their friendship with the sin of his regard.

“Derek?”

He’s staring at the Friar, so lost in his own thoughts that he misses the first calling of his name and only hears the second because Stiles also moves his hand from Stiles’ shoulder, eyes averted as he states, “Your bandages are finished now, you can move your arm if you wish.”

Clearing his throat, Derek moves so that there are a few steps between them before testing to see if there are any limitations to his swing, wincing when his movement pulls at his injury, but is satisfied that his fighting will not suffer for it as he nods. “I thank you, it feels like it is healing as we speak.”

Stiles scoffs, gathering up the bloodied clothes and bowl of water to set on the table, exasperation coloring his tone as he works. “If only wounds were that easy to heal; if there is even the slightest hint of pain or inflammation, I want you to promise that you will either see Father Deaton or myself to treat it. Do not believe that you can shoulder through it, or you will lose your shoulder!”

The ridiculousness of the statement makes Derek laugh, muscles that haven’t been used in nearly half his lifetime aching with the motion, and Stiles is the one staring when he finishes, lips parted and the flush from earlier-that was finally starting to fade-now spreading in a tempting patch down his neck before vanishing into the collar of his robes.

Yet, there are long moments where neither Derek or Stiles speak, and it begins to feel like there is more judgement than surprise in the quiet. Derek turns to his desk and can't help but snap, “There is no reason to gawk; I am capable of finding amusement in things.”

“You mistake my silence.” Stiles’ voice is as frustrated as Derek’s, but he does not allow it to temper his tone any as he continues, “I... I was just thinking that you should smile more, that it makes you look- That you seem younger when you do, that there is less pain atop your shoulders.”

Those same shoulders hunch as Derek looks over the maps and strategies spread across the surface of his desk instead of thinking about what Stiles said. “There is precious little to smile about here and even less to laugh about, not if I do not want my fellow Templars to lock me away in fear that I have gone mad.”

Stiles snorts behind him and there are sounds that make it seem like he is leaving, but when Derek turns, Stiles is standing a few feet closer and looking at Derek like he's some sort of puzzle to figure out.

It's a little unnerving how much Derek does not mind being under Stiles’ gaze and he must look away before too long, clearing his throat as he asks, “So, what is it that you normally do after bandaging the men, Friar Stiles?”

There is a soft sigh before Stiles moves to where he was once standing, leaving Derek to feel the oddity of being cold in the midst of a desert, hands coming up to rub at his shoulders as Stiles heaves another sigh before he speaks.

“I normally read the Psalms to them, to give them hope and ease their spirit, but something tells me I should avoid that with you...,” -a wry smile twists Stiles lips as his eyes flicker over to the entrance of the tent- “if not just take my leave altogether.”

“Please, st-” Derek stops, swallowing hard when he realizes what he nearly asked: _Please stay with me_. He should not allow another moment of this, not allow this hunger any room to grow, yet he cannot seem to stop himself from saying, “I would not be against listening to you recite, if you so desire.”

A warmth fills him as soon as the word ‘desire’ slips past his lips, but thankfully Stiles does not notice as he is too busy nodding at Derek, a smile tugging at his own lips that he seems to be trying to suppress.

“Yes, I would enjoy that very much. Would you like to sit? I have a tendency to prattle on and your wound needs rest to heal, anyway.”

Nodding as well, Derek moves past Stiles to sprawl across his bedding, a low groan leaving his body as he stretches all the aches of the day out. While not as comfortable as a real bed, it's still better than the packed dirt and sand that he had walked upon all day.

When he looks up, Stiles is gazing at him with a glazed expression and Derek finds himself growing tense again as he defends, “It might not be silk sheets or downy feathers, but any bit of softness is a comfort out here...”

His words seem to snap Stiles out of whatever flight of fancy his mind has taken and he mutters something angry under his breath as he takes his seat beside Derek, something that appears to be directed more to himself than Derek, before pulling his Bible from the folds of his robe.

“Is there a Psalm that you prefer we start with?” Stiles opens the well-worn book and almost immediately turns to the pages he wants, his entire frame seeming to relax at the familiar action. “Some of the men have a favorite from ho- They have a particular one that brings them hope and joy.”

It seems that Derek is not the only one that remembers the talk they had a few days ago that once more had him stomping off like he was wont to do in the beginning of their relationship, but he does not want that moment to besmirch this one, so he simply sighs and offers an olive branch. “Psalms 5. My mother used to sing it on rainy morns.”

He looks up when silence greets his words, only to see Stiles staring at him with that startled fondness from earlier, a small smile curving his lips that makes Derek bury his face in his bedding again as Stiles softly states, “It was one of my mother’s favorites as well.”

Derek shifts in his bed so that he’s laying on his uninjured side, yet can still see Stiles as he also shifts, takes a deep breath, and begins to read:

“ _Listen to my words, Lord, consider my lament. Hear my cry for help, my King and my God, for to you I pray…_ ”

Derek had asked his mother once, a quiet day when the rains had made him sleepy and a little slow, why she sang this particular Psalm when the lyrics were so sad. She had looked at him for a good long while, almost as if she was deciding if she wanted to divulge some great secret, before softly saying that it helped remind her that, even though there was darkness in the world, if they kept their faith and trust in God, there would be light to follow.

It had been hard to remember that in the days following After…

“ _…for you are not a God who is pleased with wickedness; with you, evil people are not welcome. The arrogant cannot stand in your presence. You hate all who do wrong; you destroy those who tell lies. The bloodthirsty and deceitful you, Lord, detest…_ ”

Stiles reminds Derek of his mother, in a few ways: his unrelenting faith, his steadfastness, his ability to make even the sternest of men relax and even smile at his antics… His determination to see the best in Derek and his utter refusal to let the demons that plague him gain any foothold in this desolate place.

“ _...but I, by your great love, can come into your house; in reverence I bow down toward your holy temple. Lead me, Lord, in your righteousness because of my enemies- make your way straight before me…_ ”

Mayhap that is why Derek feels so comfortable in Stiles’ presence, why it is so easy to stretch out in his bed and not worry about lowering his guard, why he allows his eyes to close as he listens to the soft cadence of Stiles’ voice as it reminds him of the rainfall and his mother’s songs.

“ _…but let all who take refuge in you be glad; let them ever sing for joy. Spread your protection over them, that those who love your name may rejoice in you…_ ”

For a moment, Derek would swear he even feels his mother’s gentle fingers in his hair as the Psalm draws to a close, as the last notes soften into whispers and a calmness overcomes him that he believed he lost the same day his family died.

“ _…surely, Lord, you bless the righteous; you surround them with your favor as with a shield._ ”

He doesn’t want to lose this peacefulness, this sense of being completely calm and unconcerned with what the marrow will bring, so he grasps at the cloth near him as he did as a child and was fearful of his mother going more than a few steps away from him.

“Another.” His voice is a rasp of sound that breaks a bit of the quiet that had surrounded him, but he needs this feeling for as long as he can hold it, because there is a dim part of him that knows that this is only a temporary sanctuary that he may not have when he next opens his eyes.

“Another, please.”

There is a moment when he thinks that Stiles is going to deny his request, but then there is the sound of pages turning and then a body leaning against his as Stiles softly says, “This one is one of my favorites, I believe you may favor it as much as your mother’s…”

Derek lets out a huff of breath, once more relaxing into the bedding as Stiles clears his throat before he begins the Psalm, his voice a soft hum as Derek allows himself to fall into a deep slumber.

“ _The Lord is my shepherd, I lack nothing. He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he refreshes my soul. He guides me along the right path, for his name’s sake…_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Psalm that Stiles reads to Derek at the end of the chapter is Psalm 23.


	5. Purge Your Demons

The days following when Stiles decided to run after Derek, only to end up caring for him and reading Psalms until the man was slumbering like a child against him, mark a noticeable change in their relationship.

It had been difficult to move away afterward, when Derek was sleeping so soundly beside him, one hand still wrapped in the cloth of his robes, and an almost childlike peacefulness on his face as he lay there.

Stiles had wanted desperately to stay, to lay beside Derek and ignore the world outside of the tent, to wake him with loving kisses and warm caresses, to take him away from a battlefield that was destroying his soul almost as much as his guilt was.

Derek was _not_ meant for killing, that night made that knowledge _very_ plain, and Stiles was once more consumed with the need to know _why_ Derek thought he deserved to be here, that he deserved to be somewhere that was killing him as easily as any other vice would destroy lesser men.

Their conversations have become much easier and consisted of lighter things, with Derek allowing snippets of his childhood and earlier years to slip into their talks more and more often, yet Stiles is almost certain that if he were to ask straight out the circumstances of Derek’s entrance into the Holy Order, all of that would crumble into dust in his fingers.

While Stiles can understand that-he still avoids any talk of his mother, his answers always short and to the point when he is pressed-a part of him still yearns to find out what happened that made Derek into the man he is.

Granted, he only knows what Derek has spoken of and knows that memories are fickle things that change as years past, Stiles is still of the mind that Derek loved his family dearly and would not knowingly cause them any harm.

Perhaps a foolishness of youth that he feels responsible for, even now? Stiles is well versed in that, in a hidden fear that eats away at even your most peaceful of times…

A secret that, if known, would cause others to look at you with revulsion and hate.

“I am beginning to fear the moments you are silent, for they have only lead to questions that cause upset in my experience.”

Startling and then scrambling to make sure the vials that he was using do not fall, Stiles looks over to Derek with a shaky smile as he says, “I was just thinking.”

“Oh, God save us all.”

Another thing that Stiles has found out through long talks with the Templar: Derek has a dark sense of humor, sometimes not evident until you’ve walked away and have a moment of thought, other times with little quips and jibes that amuse even as they annoy.

Stiles huffs at him, which makes Derek let out a chuckle of his own, something that Stiles has been trying to get him to do more often now that he has seen what Derek looks like when he laughs.

He _really_ should laugh more often, it brightens his face up and makes him look utterly devastating…

“You’ve gone quiet again.”

Shaking his head, Stiles gives himself a mental command to not drift into flights of fancy, where Derek is one of _his_ kind and would welcome Stiles’ advances, would welcome his lo- “Seems to be a day for introspection, I suppose.”

Derek looks at him for a moment before nodding and going back to grinding the medicines that Father Deaton needs to care for the men, leaving Stiles to try to make sense of the thought that tried to make itself known only a few moments ago.

He… he surely cannot be _in love_ with Derek? _Lust_ , yes. He has had _many_ moments when he has imagined the nakedness of Derek’s form, to feel the muscles move like he had when treating Derek’s wound but in a much more _intimate_ setting, but _**love**_? Surely not…

His mind seems to delight in surprising him, because it focuses on the night that Stiles treated Derek, remembering the urge to lay beside him, but also on the feeling of _just_ resting beside Derek and offering the comfort of a companion to watch over you in the night.

Stiles blinks and reflects upon all the times that Derek has come to the medical tent, how his day almost seems to brighten and better after these moments…

That is only because he is glad of Derek’s friendship, that he is not alone in this desolation because Father Deaton seems more apt to spend his time with Scott and speaking of all the good they’re doing for King and Country.

He isn’t in love with Derek.

He _can’t_ be…

“Her name was Katherine Argent. I simply called her Kate.”

Stiles’ head snaps up at Derek’s voice, but his gaze is focused on the mortar and pestle, the herbs that he was supposed to be grinding into a simple mixture slowly being turned into a fine powder under his intensity.

“She was sophisticated, fiery, and desired by nearly all who looked upon her. I was flabbergasted that she chose me to court, thrilled that someone like _her_ would ever deign to look upon someone like _me_ , second in line with nothing to offer and barely of age, with favor.” Stiles can hear the pestle scrape harshly against the bowl of the mortar as Derek’s grip tightens, perhaps imagining it as someone’s throat. “Against all that I had been taught and knew, I agreed when she asked that our relationship remain a secret twixt the two of us.”

Eyes widening when he realizes just what it is that Derek is telling him, Stiles bites his lip as the need to demand why Derek’s speaking of this-why _now_ , why _him_ -fights to slips past his throat. He has a feeling that if he interrupts now, Derek will _never_ speak of this again and that same feeling is telling him that Derek _needs_ to tell this tale, no matter how much it seems to be hurting him…and it _is_ hurting him to relive this, that much is evident in Derek’s hunched shoulders and the fact that he keeps stopping to take deep breaths that tremble in a way that Stiles is all too familiar with.

“It had seemed like an adventure, at first, for someone so desired focused on solely me. It never occurred to me to question why she asked that we’d be a secret; surely, she had many jealous admirers, she was merely looking out for my safety. It _should_ have occurred to me to wonder why she asked so many questions about my family, about my home, but I merely brushed those thoughts aside. We were undoubtedly going to wed as soon as she allowed our courting to be common knowledge and wasn’t it common to get to know your future spouse when you courted someone?”

Derek looks up at Stiles then, almost as if he was looking for some sort of confirmation, but Stiles can do nothing but stand there and stare. For one of the few times in his life, he is utterly speechless with the knowledge of what exactly it is that Derek has lived through.

Derek doesn’t look away as he continues, his eyes pinning Stiles where he stands and making him feel as if _he_ is the one being laid bare, even though Derek is the one that is spilling all his secrets…

“Granted, there were times when I’d wonder if Kate was who she claimed to be, but she had a way of making me forget about all of my worries and focus instead on when we would be together. It was easy to slip away from the rest of my family to see her as the days went on and I became ever more eager to let the secret of our relationship be known to all…” Derek finally looks away then, his next breath coming out in a watery rasp, Stiles almost unconsciously mimicking him a moment later. “I should have just kept my mouth shut, should have just kept my head in the clouds and I would still be with my family now…”

“Derek…” Stiles cannot help but speak now, knowing that Derek does not mean being with his family here on Earth, but joining them in God’s Paradise, and the thought of never meeting this man causes a sharp upset to make itself known in his breastbone.

A soft shake of Derek’s head stills the words on Stiles’ tongue as the Templar finally sets down the mortar and pestle, moving to lean against one of the tent’s post and still not meeting Stiles’ eyes as he seems to come to the crux of his story, the secret that Derek has kept from even the men he serves with.

The secret that Stiles is starting to wish that he never asked Derek about in the first place.

“As it was, Kate seemed to be tired of my gentle demands that we be made public and decided that the time for playacting was over; there came a night that I had received word that she wished to speak to me, and that the matter was ‘of great urgency and of something close to both our hearts’. I don’t need to tell you that it did not take much more convincing than that, and I made my way to our normal meeting place… Needless to say, there was no one there when I found my way to the old clearing we agreed upon, and no one showed even after an hour of wait. So I went back home and- and-”

Stiles is certain that Derek would try to finish his tale if he could, but the tears trailing down his cheeks have Stiles moving over to the Templar’s side before another word is spoken and he is placing a hand on the man’s shoulder, desperate to do more, but unable to.

His breath catches as Derek meets his gaze, the color of his eyes crystallized by the tears still cling to his lashes, and Stiles desperately wants to reach up to brush those droplets away. He almost does, but Derek is moving away before Stiles can do much more than breathe, and coughing a few times before he speaks again.

“By the time I made it back home, it was naught but broken timber and ashes littering the grounds, my family burned to bones and scraps of cloth.” Derek seems to pull a mask of indifference over himself as he turns around, the redness of his eyes the only evidence of his vulnerability a moment ago. Stiles is once again struck with the urge to hold him, to whisper words of comfort in the Templar’s ear.

“I told _everything_ that I was taught to keep secret to the first person that showed interest in me, and because of that, my entire family lost their lives. I lost all hope at the ache, selling my service to an Order that slays its fellow man, all in the name of a God that refused to save my family from my own stupidity. Can you really say that I am innocent now? Or that your God is really so loving and caring?”

Derek grabs Stiles by the shoulders and pushes him against the post standing opposite the one he was leaning against, his movements jerky and sudden, a desperation in them that speaks more to agony than anger.

“Why did He not send some sign that they should leave the house? That Kate was a snake just waiting for a moment to strike?” Derek’s grip on Stiles’ shoulders tightens even as his voice trembles, Stiles’ own hands coming up to mimic Derek’s grip on the older man’s shoulders, slowly drawing him as close as he dared.

“Why did He let them die…?”

As much as Stiles had wished to hold Derek over the past days, this was as far from what he had originally dreamed as it could be, but this was much like when he had treated Derek’s wounds; there was a part of Stiles that was _glad_ that he was here, that Derek trusted him enough to be as vulnerable as he was. A large part of Stiles didn’t want to let go, wanted to hold on until they both turned into so much dust.

Yet, before too long, Derek is pulling away and hiding his face as he draws an angry hand across it, swallowing a few times before he states, “Apologies, Friar Stiles. I do not know why I told you these things and I hope I have not troubled you with my ramblings.”

“On the contrary, Derek, I am glad that you shared this with me.” Stiles’ voice is not nearly as steady as Derek’s and he wants to shake the man, ask why he thinks he needs to pretend that his words and actions did not happen, but also understands that it is sometimes difficult to let go of a hurt that has haunted you for half your life. “If you are finding it a discomfort knowing that I know about your past, simply think of what you told me as a confessional and know that all that we spoke of will not leave this tent.”

Derek gives him a short nod, seeming glad that they will speak no more of what happened, and makes to leave the tent only to stop and look over his shoulder to say, “Thank you, Friar Stiles. I know I can trust you to keep this quiet, even from Father Deaton.”

There is a slight inflection at the end of Derek’s statement and Stiles can hear the question even if there was not, so he is quick to answer, “You have my utter silence in this, Derek, and despite what you know of me, I _can_ keep my tongue about me, when I choose.”

Derek huffs in disbelief at that, a bit of the heaviness that had been about his shoulders lessening-which had been Stiles’ plan in the first place-and he gives Stiles one more nod before finally completing his original action and walking out of the tent…

…leaving Stiles to slide to the floor as soon as he knows Derek is out of hearing distance, a gasp of sympathy leaving his lips as he tries to come to terms with what he learned in the last half hour, his heart pounding a slightly uneven rhythm in his chest.

Tis no wonder that Derek is so certain of his own damnation, if he holds himself responsible for the actions of this Kate woman! No matter how old or young Derek may have been, he is not to blame for being deceived by someone he once held dear, and Stiles has a moment to feel an insurmountable anger on Derek’s behalf as he thinks of how this woman might have gone about ‘distracting’ him from questioning her motives.

Shaking his head, Stiles pulls himself from the floor of the tent and vows that Derek will know that what happened was in no way his fault and that what happened was the acts of an evil woman who, had she not caught Derek in her claws, would have found some other innocent to entrap.

Derek has carried enough guilt for his lifetime, it is time that someone eases that burden, and Stiles has a story of his own to tell that may help Derek be more willing to believe that.

\----------------

As has become custom for him whenever he has left Friar Stiles, Derek is left feeling both lighter and slightly heavier after the experience.

He had not meant to tell Stiles about Kate, had been determined to carry that shame to his grave, but there had been something about the moment that had made him want to confess every blight and black spot on his soul in a desperate attempt to-

No, there was nothing to be had here; Stiles now knew the truth of his past transgressions and would surely stop trying to see the best of the man that let his family be burned alive simply because a pretty face happened to glance his way…

Shaking his head with an angry growl, Derek changes his course from the training grounds to his tent, his desire to be around others completely done for the day. After everything that had passed in the medicinal tent with Stiles, his mood was one that would be better served by keeping his own company.

Thankfully, he meets none of his fellows on his way and ducks into his own living space without anyone asking anything of him, the quiet a much needed respite after the events of this morning.

Sighing heavily, Derek sinks into the bedding and braces his hands on his knees, trying to pull in the emotions that had been rampant during his conversation with Stiles. He had mastered them for almost ten years, but now that they have been released, it seems like it would be almost impossible to pull them back into place once more.

Yet another thing that Stiles had brought about.

Another sigh slips past Derek’s lips as he thinks on the man that has overcome every wall and deterrent that he has set up twixt himself and the rest of the world, the man that refuses to see the worst in him and always insists upon pointing out the best.

The man that Derek is starting to feel very strongly about, even going as far as to slip into the dreams he has, turning them into something gentler than the bloodshed and death that haunt his waking hours.

Dreams that used to end with blood covered hands and a field full of everyone he ever cared for laying motionless now instead feature mole spotted skin that seem to go on for miles, limbs that bend willingly under his hands, a throat that bruises beautifully under his mouth and laughter that seems to ring through the shadows of his mind like a warming beam of sunlight…

Pulling his mind away from those thoughts and ignoring the warmth on his ears, Derek makes his way over to his table and looks down at the map spread across the surface, mentally marking the places that he and his men have encountered their enemy and trying to find a pattern to their attacks.

He is not sure how long he stands there, determinedly keeping his mind away from the conversation twixt Stiles and himself, how much the younger man has come to mean to him, and the almost unwavering certainty that all of that would fall to pieces if Stiles knew the true depth of his regard.

Almost as if he was summoned by Derek’s thoughts, there is a familiar voice calling out his name, making him come as close to praying for strength as he has ever had since his mother died.

“You may enter, Friar Stiles.”

Nonetheless, it is a little while before Stiles enters the tent, so much so that Derek has turned away from his perusal of his maps to watch the almost hesitant way that the Friar enters.

Derek has the sickening thought that Stiles is here to tell him that their friendship is no more after all that Derek has confessed, or that he has somehow found out about Derek’s feelings and that even if his soul was not damned for his family, his feelings toward Stiles would certainly send him into Hell’s flames.

He is just working himself into a right panic when Stiles decides to finally break the silence, but what he speaks of is something that Derek had not thought he would ever be willing to share.

“When I had turned newly ten and two, my mother became gravely ill.”

Seeing almost immediately what Stiles is doing, Derek moves toward him with his hand outstretched, wishing he was more capable with his words as he stammers, “S- Friar Stiles, you do not have to- It was not my wish-”

“I know,” Stiles has not noticed how close Derek came to slipping, or he has and just decided not to comment on it, and continues to look at Derek no doubt like Derek had looked at him when they spoke last. “It is just that you have shared much with me, given me a secret that you did not have to, and I feel a need to share with you as well. To perhaps show you that you are not the only one that has a guilt that eats at them, and that it does not change who you truly are.”

Part of Derek wants to argue, wants to say that whatever boyish troubles Stiles had due to his mother’s sickness have no bearing on Derek’s own tragedy, but there is a determined glint to Stiles’ expression that tells Derek his words will do no good in this matter.

He also wants to learn more about Stiles, about what made him join the Church and how Father Deaton became his mentor, why there are times when he will stop in the middle of discussing the wives and woman waiting for the other men, an almost aching loneliness in his eyes…

Pulling himself from his wandering thoughts, Derek gestures for Stiles to continue as he takes a seat at the table, watching as Stiles comes more fully inside and darts his gaze around Derek’s tent before settling tentatively on the edge of Derek’s bedding.

“We believed that it was simply the chills that always seemed to overtake her in the colder months and made sure that she was always covered with a quilt or other bedding, that her food was always warmed and cooked thoroughly.” Gaze dropping to his hands and a wry twist to his lips, Stiles continues in a voice that holds no emotion, yet still elicits the need to comfort in Derek’s gut. “It was not until we woke one morn to the sounds of her coughing and the sight of blood staining the cloth she held to her lips that we realized how wrong we were…”

Derek once more shifts in his seat, meaning to halt Stiles’ story, stop him from recounting something that still hurts him to this day. He understands what Stiles is trying to do; he has also lost much, but where Derek’s tragedy was an instant wound followed by years of heartache, Stiles had to suffer the hurt of a dragging sickness that stole someone precious from him…

“We took her to a healer that we knew in the village, the same woman that helped bring me into the world as well as treated my mother’s chills before, and that was the first time I had met Father Deaton.” Stiles continues on, unware of Derek’s struggle to speak past the lump in his throat, his eyes still locked on his hands. “He was there to pray for her recovery, make sure that she had confessed in the event the… the worst happened. He was there when we were told that the chills had worsened, that her lungs were infected, and that the medicine that would help her was very rare, very expensive.”

Stiles finally raises his gaze and offers Derek a smile that holds no joy, that makes that feeling in his gut intensify until it is as if there is a boulder settled at the bottom of his stomach as he swallows back the lump in his throat that is keeping the words he wants to say from appearing.

“My father is… _was_ … a carpenter, something that my mother used to love to tell to whomever would listen. ‘Just like the Son of God, he builds for others’ she used to say, and it would always make him laugh, would make him insist that Jesus did a lot more than he ever could…” Stiles’ smile becomes a little more real as he remembers the good times, although it still holds that edge of sadness. “He did not make much off the carvings and furniture that people asked of him, it was enough to keep us fed and housed, but not enough to pay for a medicine from the far East. He began traveling to nearby villages to sell his services, trying to earn even a half-penny more, and I stayed behind to watch over my mother in the hopes that my meager attention might bring her some comfort.”

Derek cannot stand it anymore, just sitting here without doing anything, and he moves before he can really question it. One moment, he’s sitting at his table, the next he’s settled beside Stiles and placing a hand on his shoulder, unsure if the touch is even welcomed.

There is silence as Stiles simply looks at him, as Derek strongly considers removing his hand and claiming the fatigue of the day for his actions, before Stiles is leaning into the hold and sighing softly.

“Most days, aside from a slight cough, she simply seemed to be suffering from her normal ailment and I would pretend that my father would come home to see her fully recovered, that the money he worked for could be used to buy a feast for us to celebrate. Other days, when she would weep with the discomfort that consumed her and cry when even the simplest of actions would cause agony, I would despair of her ever recovering fully, of our life even coming close to what it had been before she grew ill.”

Picking at the bedding underneath him, a tremor enters Stiles’ voice as he goes on, his eyes closed in an expression of grief. “Then there came a day that all the anguish that she had experienced before seemed to come upon her all at once, twisting her body in convulsions and making her cry out in agony so loudly that the shutters would rattle, the healer and Deaton unable to do anything to ease her distress. She began to cry out that it would be more of a mercy to let her die, for the healer to give her something so that she could ‘slip away’, for someone to take a blade to her heart and cease its beating.”

Spreading his fingers out slowly, Stiles seems to be having trouble breathing as the next part of his story slips past his lips. “I had a dagger that my father made for me, handle carved so that it only fit my grip, and I carried it with me always. As my mother screamed and cried, I left the room and unsheathed it, holding it as I thought about if I was strong enough to do as my mother wanted. If I was strong enough to end her sorrow…”

Derek gives up all pretense of distancing himself then, and reaches out to draw Stiles against his side, hand going from the younger man’s shoulder to stroke softly through his hair as Stiles openly weeps against his throat. He wishes that he had a way to take away the ache that he can hear in every word the Friar gasps out.

“I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t make myself end my mother’s life, no matter how much distress she was in. I put my blade away and went back into the room, determined to help Deaton and the healer help her, to do _something_ to make her feel comforted.” Stiles heaves in a gasping breath, turning his face into Derek’s chest as struggles with his next words. “It did not matter, in the end. As soon as I stepped through the door, my mother’s cries turned from pain into accusations that I was going to kill her, that they had to keep me away from her. I was terrified that she had somehow seen me, knew what I had been thinking, and _knew_ that she needed them to shield me from her. That I was only a second away from choosing- that I almost-”

Unable to hear anymore, Derek draws Stiles ever closer in, muffling both his sobs and his words against Derek’s chest. He does not seem to mind, if Derek goes by the hands grasping at the back of his robes, and Derek just gently murmurs soft words of comfort as he rocks the pair of them.

It takes a few heartbeats before Stiles’ tears slow, before his pulls himself from Derek’s hold. Derek has to keep himself from drawing Stiles back in because, even though he felt that holding Stiles was the only thing in his life that was _right_ , it did not mean that the Friar felt the same way.

“I do not know how long I was curled up in the corner of the room, hands over my ears to block out my mother’s cries, praying that my father would come home to sooth her. I do not know what happened in those hours between her screams and the setting of the sun, but I _do_ know that the moment my father touched my hand with his and looked at me like his world had just ended, my mother was no longer with us on this Earthly plane.” Stiles’ voice is raspy and sounds like it almost crawls out of his throat as he finishes his tale, eyes red and a bone weary defeated air about him that Derek has never seen before. “We tried to move on after her passing, but every little thing we did reminded us of her, and one day it became too much. My father turned to spirits to ease the ache of the loss of his wife, and one night, I decided to see if they would help me as well.”

A bitter, bitter smile twisted Stiles’ lips as he remembers the foolishness of his youth. “I did a few things that I was not proud of, because they caused my father pain, and immediately devoted my life to the Church as penance for those actions. I joined the parish after my night of debauchery and, perhaps because my father was even more lonesome with an empty house, he joined the Templars.”

“Stiles…” The use of his name without the honorific title in front of it has Stiles snapping his head up to look at Derek with wide, wide eyes, which grow ever wider when Derek reaches forward to wipe a stray teardrop. “Why are you telling me this? Why are you remembering something that so clearly brings you pain?”

Shifting on the bedding so that he is facing Derek fully, Stiles gives him that look that makes Derek feel like he is being laid bare and measured, before softly asking, “After knowing what happened in my past, knowing that I was a single choice away from killing _my own mother_ , that for the longest time afterward I believed it _was_ my fault she died, that I should have been quieter, more caring… Would you consider me a damned soul?”

There isn’t a moment’s hesitation.

“No, it never even crossed my mind. It was not your fault your mother died, and the only reason you even thought about harming her is because you believed that it was what she wished.”

“Then why is it so impossible for you to believe that you are not as damned?” Derek’s rebuttal stills on his tongue when Stiles’ hands reach out and clasp his own, making him wonder if Stiles even notices the way his thumbs are caressing Derek’s skin. “The story of your family is not much different than my own, yet you are more than willing to forgive me, yet unwilling to forgive yourself. You must let go of this guilt, Derek, for it was never yours to hold. You were young and foolish, and someone took advantage of that... Please, please, do not let this be the thing that kills you.”

Stiles looks like he’s moments away from weeping again, but Derek has held onto his guilt and anger for so long now, he isn’t sure if he _can_ do as Stiles asks. He can only sit there, mouth pressed into a firm line to keep from giving empty promises as misery fills Stiles face before he drops it to press his forehead against their joined hands, heaving out a long, tired sigh.

They stay like that for a few long minutes, Derek’s gaze steady on the head bowed before him as Stiles either prays for his soul or resigns himself to the knowledge that Derek cannot be saved not due to anything that Stiles has done, but because Derek cannot let himself believe he deserves it.

Alas, they cannot stay that way forever and before long, Stiles is rising from the bed, unwinding his hands from Derek’s and stepping away. “The day grows late, Derek, and I find myself tired. I hope to see you on the morrow.”

Derek is not surprised at Stiles’ fatigue, given all that he has shared-By Christ, even _he_ feels tired and all he did was just hold Stiles while he poured out his very _heart_ into Derek’s hands-but there is still something he must say before the younger man leaves. “Stiles?”

Once more, Stiles seems shocked that Derek used his given name instead of his title, but he shows he is listening with a slight nod of his head.

“I am sorry.”

The smile that Stiles shows is as brittle as the one that came before.

“Why can you not see that these things are not your fault?”

Derek can’t think of an answer before Stiles disappears to his own bed, nor can he find one many hours later in darkness of the night.


	6. Casualty

Derek lays for a long while in his tent going over everything that he has told Stiles, everything that Stiles has told him, and tries to make sense of the feelings that are sitting like a heavy stone on his chest.

The sharp stab of disappointment that had flown heavy and hot through his veins before Stiles had left now is a roiling sickness in his stomach, filling Derek with the need to both beg Stiles to show him how he can let go of all the pain that followed him all through his life and never look at the Friar again, accepting the hand Fate has given him.

There are a chorus of voices in his head-his mother’s, sisters’, Kate’s, and Stiles’-all clamoring to be heard, all demanding that Derek is one kind of man or another, and it is such a cacophony of noise that Derek is out of his bed before he can give it much thought because he cannot stand it anymore.

He does not know where he is heading until he is outside Hamidat’s tent and has pulled the entrance flap aside, only halting when he sees that the man is wide awake and staring right at him.

The man has been seen to for the entire time they’ve had him here, Stiles in here almost every day to make sure that his wounds had healed properly, chatting at Hamidat until another Templar entered the tent and said something that angered him to silence.

The care that Stiles gave to one of their enemies caused many of his fellow Templars shame to realize how far they had fallen from their original path, leading to more than a few new members at Mass the next day, although Aiden made no secret about how they were all fools for following Stiles around like a child clutching at their mother’s aprons strings.

There is no sign of any ill will on Hamidat now, his countenance as hearty and healthy as any of the men, and after a few moments of staring at Derek, he spits out something that Derek can actually understand, after Stiles had insisted that learning their enemy’s language was a step forward in understanding them.

“ _What do you want, Stiles’ warrior_?”

Derek almost smiles at the reminder of when he and Hamidat first met, of how even this complete stranger knew that Stiles was going to mean so much to him and that, in a manner of speaking, he _was_ more Stiles’ Templar than the Church’s.

“ _You are going to come with me._ ”

Hamidat’s eyes widen at Derek’s words before narrowing suspiciously, but he stays silent as Derek cuts through his bindings and pulls him to his feet, completely docile as Derek begins to lead him through the camp.

Part of Derek wonders why he’s doing this, what could be gained by letting someone who no doubt tried to kill either him or his men at one point free, but a large majority of Derek’s mind is filled with a blank sort of calmness. It almost reminds him of that night spent in Stiles’ company and the quiet of the Friar’s voice as he read to him…

“ _Where are we going, warrior? Have you finally decided to murder me like you have so many of my people?_ ”

Despite his words, Hamidat does not try to pull away nor does he try to attack Derek, he simply follows along with a meekness that Derek knows can easily turn into anger at a moment’s notice. It still does not affect the calm that still winds around Derek as he makes his way to the edge of the encampment, something telling him where to walk so they do not meet any of the sentries on duty.

“ _I am not the only one that has slain others. We have a right to defend ourselves when we are threatened.”_

 _“And we do not?!? Our homes and land were being invaded by people who drove us out instead of trying to live by our side, everything taken as if they had a right to it that we could not argue! What did you expect us to do, simply lie there like a dog and take this beating?!?_ ”

Derek does not answer, not because he has nothing to say, simply because he knows that whatever he tries to say, Hamidat will not hear. He remembers that kind of anger, the rage that made everyone an enemy and allowed no softness to touch him, and he also knows that his anger had blinded him to nearly everything around him for the longest time.

He had entered the Holy Order during that time and, for all he knows, what Hamidat is saying could be true. Yet, he keeps silent, knowing that even agreeing with the man may set him off and he can only hope that Hamidat finds someone that lets him see the good in life like Stiles had with Derek.

There is not long to linger on that thought, because they have finally exited the encampment and Derek feels comfortable for only so long out here without the blades of his fellow Templars at his back, so he makes sure they are a reasonable distance away before releasing Hamidat and holding out the blade he used to cut his restraints.

“ _Here._ ”

The younger man eyes the dagger wryly, his body tense for the first time all night. “ _Are you challenging me to a fight, warrior? Without your fellows to make the odds twist in your favor?”_

 _“No,_ ” Derek shakes his head, not offended at all by the man’s suspicion, for he would think the same if their positions were released. He lowers his shoulders a minute bit more, trying to make himself seem as unthreatening as he can be. “ _I am freeing you, and making sure that the animals do not eat all my hard work._ ”

Hamidat stares at him for a good long while, seeming to try to make sense of what Derek has told him, and if Derek was not as sure of his skills under Stiles’ tutelage as he was, he might have thought he misspoke. He is considering repeating his offer when Hamidat darts forward to snatch the dagger and take a few steps back, wide eyes on Derek the entire time.

“ _You realize that I could kill you now._ ”

Derek does not scoff, but it is a very near thing, and he knows that Hamidat saw his struggle, so he is speaking before Hamidat can say anything on the matter. “ _You can try to kill me, but the noise would undoubtedly alert the rest of the camp, if someone has not noticed your empty tent already. I suggest you take my offer and leave now, before you are once again captured, but perhaps not treated as nicely this time around._”

This time it is Hamidat that scoffs at Derek, but he also takes Derek’s advice and begins to back away, but not before stating, “ _This changes nothing. You will still be my enemy on the morrow, warrior._ ”

Derek feels his lips twitch, but keeps them still as he had not expected anything else, yet unable to keep from adding one more thing to this conversation. “ _Do not worry, you are still my enemy tonight._ ”

That earns him a look of what appears to be respect, but it is hard to tell in the starless night, and then Hamidat is disappearing into that same darkness with barely a whisper of sound to mark his passing.

Derek stares after him for a moment or two, wondering if he made the right choice or it was a temporary moment of insanity, the peace that has been holding onto him the entire night making him feel like it is more of the former than the latter. Only time will tell, and Derek placates himself with that as he makes his way back to his tent and the bedding that draws him like a siren’s song.

Once more, he meets no one on his way, and he has a moment to think that he might have to talk to his men about their skills in spotting an enemy. It is then pushed away by the thought that says perhaps they _did_ observe him walking through the camp with a prisoner and then coming back alone, coming to the wrong conclusion that he finally did something about Hamidat.

While he is not fond of that assumption, it is far better than his men hunting down the younger man like a beast instead of facing him man-to-man on the battlefield.

Finally making it back to his tent, Derek does not even bother stripping down to his smallclothes, he just falls into his bedding and closes his eyes, willing his sleep to come and pull him under.

Yet, perhaps because this is the first time in many a year that he has wanted to fall under the numbness of sleep, he cannot silence his mind long enough for rest to come. Granted, the voices are no longer cambering for his attention, but everything that has happened earlier in the day is running through his mind like a child in a field.

Stiles’ story of his mother is something that Derek is sure that not even Stiles’ closest friends know, if the man has allowed himself any friends, and Derek is both honored and confused why Stiles shared his story with him…

_…why is it so impossible for you to believe that you are not as damned?_

It seemed like Stiles voice has come back to haunt him, but instead of the clamoring demands of before, it is instead a soft hum that once more reminds Derek of that night he had Stiles by his side, Psalms falling from his lips like a nostalgic lullaby…

_You must let go of this guilt, Derek, for it was never yours to hold. You were young and foolish, and someone took advantage of that… Please, please, do not let this be the thing that kills you…_

Could that be true? Could all the guilt that he carried be released, the weight on his shoulders dropped, and his future something that he can once more looked forward to as more than just a means for his death?

Stiles seems to think so, seems to think ever so strongly that whatever happened in Derek’s past was something that was forced upon him and not something he brought about, that the only sin that Derek was guilty of was that he trusted the wrong person.

While Derek can agree with that last one, he is unsure about the rest and is not sure that he can believe the faith of one man.

Perhaps… perhaps he should tell his story to Father Deaton, should confess to the man and see what he has to say. Stiles’ insistence might be due to their familiarity with each other and unwillingness to see the worst in someone that he calls friend. The Father would be a much better judge of his character, Derek thinks, ignoring the voice that said that Stiles believed in him even before they grew closer to each other…

Yes, he will tell his story to the Father and see what he has to say, whether the man also believes his soul is worth saving.

 _And if he does not? If he tells you that your soul is more blackened than the sands after a day of battle?_ That voice that plagues his mind, the voice that came into being when he realized just who Kate was and just _what_ she was capable of doing, whispers with a sibilant hiss worthy of a snake. _If he tells you what you already know, and damns you for all eternity? What will you do then? What will you tell your precious **Stiles**?_

Derek swallows, the one thing that he is afraid of pulled to the forefront of his mind and put under a light, giving him no choice but to consider it; what will he do if Father Deaton tells him he is as he fears? Despite the fact that the pair of them bicker and seem to be at odds with each other half the time, Derek knows that Stiles respects his Father and would be torn as to what to do when it came to Derek.

Perhaps it should be up to Derek then, to thank Stiles for his faith, but for him to accept Father Deaton’s word and not let himself be corrupted by the darkness that stains Derek’s soul. For, no matter what Derek may think of himself, he will not be so selfish as to drag Stiles into Hell with him.

His mind at ease, if not his heart, Derek shifts to his side and readies himself for sleep.

It does not come.

All that is in Derek’s mind now is the look that would be on Stiles’ face when Derek tells them that their tentative friendship is over, and remembering the pain in his chest he felt at the thought just that morning from that _Stiles_ was going to remove himself from _Derek_.

Could he really subject Stiles to that kind of pain?

Pressing himself further into his bed, Derek knows that Stiles will be fine; he does not care as much for Derek as Derek does for him, Stiles is simply a shepherd trying to care for a lost sheep, not knowing it is really a wolf in disguise. Once he is shown the ruse, Stiles will probably give Derek no more mind than a quick prayer for a shift and merciful judgement.

The ache that fills him at that thought is cut off by the morning horn, making Derek jerk to a sitting position, surprised that so much time had passed without his knowing. There was no time now to linger on what to do with Stiles and the feelings he has for the man, he has to get ready for the battle that shall come.

Rubbing his hand over his face, Derek is somewhat glad that he has experience with fighting on little to no sleep, knowing that this day is going to be Hell on Earth even more so than usual. Not only is he going to have to deal with his enemies, something that does not drive him as much as it used to, he is going to speak with Father Deaton as soon as he returns.

Shaking his head, Derek pulls himself from his bed’s embrace and dresses for the day, running absentminded fingers over the small scar on his left side. He needs to focus on the battle ahead, any distraction could prove deadly, and what will happen afterward will have its own time in his mind. He only has to make it through this battle, and then he will see what kind of man he _really_ is.

Settled for now, Derek makes his way out of his tent and into the campgrounds, ready to face the day.

 

\----------------

By now, the trumpeting of the Knights returning is commonplace enough that Stiles doesn’t stop the work he is doing to look toward the approaching men anymore, as well as being a little uncertain due to his last conversation with Derek, so it takes a few moments before he even registers the broken sound Erica makes.

Yet, as soon as he does, his head snaps towards the Knights and he has a sickening moment of deja vu as he sees the reason for Erica’s dismay; there is a stretcher being held between two of the men and even from this distance, there is no mistaking the build of the man upon it, as well as the inky darkness of the head of hair he possesses.

All of his worse fears and nightmares are coming horrifyingly true when he realizes that it is _Derek_ that is being carried into camp, _Derek_ lying far too still on his litter of cloth, the faces of his men already telling Stiles the worse.

“No. No, no, no, no. Please, no...” Erica is chanting beside him, almost if repeating the litany will somehow make the words into truth, will somehow change the tragedy they are witnessing. It gains in volume when they watch Commander Scott go to meet up with the men, only to stop dead in his tracks and make a hurt noise even they can hear. “Please, God, not him... Please, no. No, no, no, no...

He is unaware of the moments that pass beyond that, but there are a few things that stand out in his mind; the items that he was holding hit the ground with an earth-shattering crash, though he could not tell you what they were or their importance, and there seems to be no time at all before he is standing beside Derek, looking down at the man as they remove his armor from his body.

Derek is an ashen grey, the Death Sweat already dampening his brow, and there is an ugly gash going all along his left side. Stiles is struck with a sudden sense memory of cleaning and treating a smaller wound on Derek, dizzy with the thought that this injury is in almost the exact same spot.

“Stiles,” Scott’s voice is surprisingly distant, despite the fact that he can feel the Commander’s hand gripping his shoulder, “I’m so sor-”

“We’re going to need feverfew and sage, as well as clean cloths, catgut, and a new tunic for when I’m finished stitching up the wound.”

His heart beats once, twice, and then Scott is quietly, oh-so-quietly saying, “Stiles, I understand that you are upset and want to help him, Derek was a good man and a good friend, but you are only prolonging the inevitable. It would be more merciful to-”

“Sir Derek is still alive, Commander Scott,” Stiles interrupts shortly, placing a palm over Derek’s chest, the faint heartbeat steadying his hands and he focuses on that; it will not do to have trembling hands when doing needlework, he will cause more harm than good. “I intend to keep him that way, God willing, and I do not need you damning him before we even start trying to save him. Now, feverfew, sage and catgut, we need those first.”

“I know where a growth of feverfew is, and Father Deaton has said that he was going out to look for sage a few days ago, I’ll ask if he found any.” Boyd’s voice is the same calm note it always is, the only hint to his feelings is the way he states his words to Derek’s form, as if he were trying to let the man know what he was doing and asking him to hold on. “Erica will gather the catgut and be back as soon as she can, won’t you, Erica?”

“Of course, Sir Boyd,” Her voice sounds right next to Stiles’ ear, trembling as if she’s ready to start crying at any moment, and he jumps at that because he had been too wrapped up in the man under his hands to even realize she had followed him. “There’s always a girl or two sewing at our camp, I’ll find it with time to spare, you see that I will!”

“Thank you, Erica, I’ll have him patched up and growling at everyone like normal in no time due to the pair of you.” The jest is not one of his best and falls a little flat in the space between them, but it earns him a smile as she and Boyd run off right as Sir Isaac runs up, what looks like nearly every clean cloth in the entire encampment in his arms.

“We need to move him into a tent as soon as possible, so that the wound stays clean while I tend to it.” Sir Isaac’s face is nearly as pale as Derek’s, but he snaps to action almost as soon as the words leave Stiles’ lips, barking at another Knight to help him carry the stretcher into the nearest tent, allowing Stiles a brief moment of absolute, utter panic.

There are so many ways this could go awry; the wound could get infected and Derek would end up even worse off than he was already with a missing limb to contend with, they could lose him to a fever like Stiles lost his mother, Stiles could use the wrong herbs and cause him more suffering instead of easing his aches... What if he mucks up the needlework and aggravates the wound? What if God decides that He’s ready to bring Derek to Paradise? What if all goes wrong and Derek _dies_?

Inhaling a shaking, unsteady breath, Stiles angrily wipes at the tears that have gathered and follows the Knights into the tent they have commandeered into a makeshift medical ward, determination falling over his shoulders like his own set of armor.

If God decides that this is the day that He will take Derek Hale from his time on this Earth, then He will have to fight one Świętosław Stilinski every step of the way...

Swallowing hard against the fears that are threatening to overwhelm him, Stiles moves past the men that carried Derek inside and immediately has to take a few minutes to breathe at the sight of Derek - a man that Stiles has only just admitted to himself that he cares for, that he _loves_ \- lie in the same place were so many others have left this mortal plane despite how hard Father Deaton has fought to convince them to stay...

“Friar?” Sir Isaac turns to him as his fellows leave with words of encouragement and hope, leaving Stiles to push back the panic that he can feel clawing at his throat, the sudden fit that threatens to make it impossible to help _himself_ , much less Derek.

“Tell me what happened.” The words are out before Stiles can even think about how this particular story will make him feel; it is not as if Stiles has not heard the reports and details of their scrimmages, has needed the details in order to properly care for the men that enter the medicinal tent, but this about _Derek_ and has to do with what happened _to Derek_ …

Sir Isaac stares at him for a moment, no doubt wondering if it would be wise to do as Stiles asked, given that he thinks Stiles is a moment away from fainting like a maiden in a summer’s heat. “It is not a pretty story, as Derek’s form can tell. Are you sure-?”

“Yes, I am sure.” is Stiles’ prompt reply, knowing that if he has time to think about this, he will cower away, and he needs to know how bad the wound is to properly treat it.

Needs to know if Derek even _wants_ to survive at all… Perhaps this has been a way for Derek to find the end that he has been chasing ever since the night that horrible woman killed his family…

Thankfully, Sir Isaac is speaking before Stiles’ mind is travelling any farther down the dark path it has started on. “It seemed like a normal patrol, at first; we were going along the borders of the boundary line between the land we had claimed and the places where we had battles with those infidels when someone shouted out that a group of them were upon the hill in front of us.”

Stiles’ head snaps up at Sir Isaac’s voice and he sees that the man has this far-off, almost _haunted_ look on his features as he looks at something Stiles cannot see, reliving the horror of that morning.

“It was like they just _appeared_ out of the sands, no sounds of horses or jingling of armor to give them away, and they descended upon us like a horde of demons thirsting for blood.”

Sir Isaac shivers once before his eyes fixate on Derek like Stiles has only seen on the most devout in his parish, and it makes him feel a bit hopeful even before Sir Isaac opens his mouth.

“If they were demons thirsting for blood, then Sir Derek was like an avenging angel determined to protect all of the men under his care. It was not like I had never seen him fight to protect us before, or that I believed that he was only fighting for himself, but it was almost like there was an extra power behind his blows… For every swing of his sword, three of their number fell and it would have given us hope if not for the fact that for every one that fell, it seemed like five more sprung up to take their place.”

Sir Isaac seems to have the same problem that Stiles himself does whenever he is feeling anxious, his fingers twitching and his gaze darting around, before spotting a shelf of papers much like the ones in Derek’s tent. Sir Isaac then begins to sort them in a manner that seems to help calm him, his voice coming far more steadily than before.

“This did not make Sir Derek falter, if anything, this only made him fight harder, stronger. Made him call for his fellows to stand by him and cleave a line through those infidels like Heaven’s holy blade striking down God’s foes, his voice a snarl that would not be uncommon from a creature of the night.” Sir Isaac’s looks up then, his eyes wide and a shine to them that speaks of more than devotion, that holds a hint of fear. “It resonated within all of us, almost _pulling_ us forward despite our fatigue to beat back our foe to half their number, the rest of them cowering before us.”

“Then, how has this come to be?” What Sir Isaac speaks of sounds like the beginning of a victorious campaign, not something that would lead to Derek lain out upon ratty beddings with his life’s blood seeping from him in a steady stream, so Stiles is more than a little forceful when he demands, “How is it that Derek was brought so low?!?”

“I was too far away when the battle started; I did not see it quite so clearly, and I was defending my own life when it happened.” Sir Isaac is quick to point out, Stiles’ anger making him grip the papers in his hands tight enough to leave a few tears, eyes darting to the entrance of the tent as if he was considering making a run for it. “It seemed like Sir Derek had… hesitated while fighting one of the men. Had knocked his blade away and the man to the ground, turning away instead of finishing the man off.”

This time it is Sir Isaac’s own anger that crumples the papers in his hands as he looks up at Stiles, startling him with the tears that are gathered there. “I had just finished off my man and was rushing toward Sir Derek, my mouth just opening to call out his name, when the man he was fighting rose from his sprawl with a glint of steel and dragged it down Sir Derek’s side. His roar at the pain would have made the one that called us to arms seem like the yip of a puppy, and it was only a second after that did Sir Derek’s sword find that man’s stomach.”

Stiles has to look at Derek again at that, place his hand over Derek’s heart to reassure himself that his insane Templar is still there with him and not bleeding out in the middle of a desert field.

His gaze finally leaves Derek when he realizes that Sir Isaac has not continued his story, only to see the Templar has a calculating gleam in his eyes that has Stiles fighting the sudden urge to pull his hands away, instead he simply meets Sir Isaac’s gaze with his own until the man finally finishes his story.

“I was close enough to see the man whisper something in Sir Derek’s ear that had him… _smiling, **God**_ only knows why, before nodding his head. It was as if some unknown signal had been received, because they both fell as if God had cut their strings, caught in some morbid parody of an embrace.” Sir Isaac shivers once more, this time more of a shaking off a chill or a shadow, before focusing his gaze on Derek’s still form. “We pried him away from the infidel after realizing that Sir Derek still breathed and immediately headed back here, hoping that you or Father Deaton would be able to care for him.”

It is then that Stiles sees the boy that was so eager to please Derek the first time they met, one of the lost sons that Derek has taken under his wing to care for, and there is nothing that he can do in the face of that earnestness except tell him the God’s honest truth.

“I can tend for Derek as best as I can, Sir Isaac, making sure that there is no herb or poultice that I do not try.” Stiles can feel his fingers digging into Derek’s tunic, needing the feeling of Derek to ground him as he is reminded who exactly it is that he is caring for, reminded that it is not just him that will be devastated if he fails. “If Death tries to snatch Derek from us, then I will make sure that it is one Hell of a battle!”

Sir Isaac gives him a dark grin that immediately wipes away the scared child and instead shows the Templar that fights at Derek’s side, the warrior that has survived his many years on the battlefield with most of his sanity still intact, and says with that dark humor that all the men here have, “Well, we all know how stubborn Derek can be, so I believe that you will have him in your corner in that fight.”

Nodding at Sir Isaac, Stiles washes his hands in the basin provided for him and gathers the cloth to wash the wound while he waits for the herbs Boyd is gathering, keeping his mind solely on the task at hand.

This is the first time that he has ever taken the care of someone solely, usually following Father Deaton’s guidance, but this is also the first time that it has been someone he cared for, someone that has shaped his life almost more than the very man that has _raised him_.

He cannot falter.

He _**will not**_.


	7. The Price We Pay

Stiles has lost all track of the passage of the days as he works, the only marking of the time passing is the bread and water he consumes so his strength does not falter, so that his hands stay steady as he mends the stitches that Derek has pulled in his sleep.

All of the Knights seem to understand that his work requires the utmost concentration, so they do not ask questions as they bring him herbs, hot water, and the occasional cloth so that Derek’s binding stays fresh. Stiles would commend their dedication if it did not bring back the panic that seems to be waiting for a quiet moment to overcome him when he remembers _why_ they are so committed to making sure his work succeeds.

So he does not let the silence linger, telling Derek the coming and goings of the camp, only pausing when a soldier comes to check on Derek's progress and bring Stiles more supplies.

Scott has visited at least once, his eyes still carrying that soft sadness that looks too much like a goodbye from when Derek was first brought in, so Stiles cannot look upon him for too long. Scott tells Derek how proud he was of how well he took care of his men and that Scott’s glad that they have someone like Stiles who is so passionate in his care for Derek.

Erica has flitted in a few times, always with more cloth and catgut, only staying for a few moments before her voice breaks and then she suddenly ‘has other duties to see to’. Stiles would tell her that she could stay longer, speak with Derek more, if he were not afraid that her tears would bring about his own…

Sir Isaac visits have happened a few times, his snarky commentary has even brought Stiles out of his singlemindedness to retort or defend himself from some sort of slight that Sir Isaac throws his way. His visits begin and end with a hand to Derek’s head, lips murmuring either in a prayer or a quick quip as he gives Stiles a short nod, his face pinched with worry.

Even Sir Aiden and Sir Daniel have shown up, the latter holding out a small pouch of herbs that Stiles has never seen before while stating in a soft voice that they were from his homeland and helped with the healing process. Sir Aiden, on the other hand, had just stood at the entrance for a moment before leaving without saying a word.

Boyd, out of all the people that have come to see Derek, is by far Stiles’ favorite.

The blacksmith simply settles himself in a chair and sets to work on a block of wood, his silent form in whatever corner of the tent Boyd sat at for that day a calming presence as Stiles also works, making it easier to focus on what needs to be done. It also helped that Boyd was there when Aiden decided to pay his respects…

After all of them visit, Father Deaton decides it is time that he visits Stiles, watching as Stiles moves about the tent, as quiet as he ever is. Stiles refrains from speaking to Derek, though, knowing that the Father would have words about his chatter, even though a few of the Templars had spoken words to Derek’s still form.

It seems that Deaton has words for Stiles anyway, heaving a breath after he watches as Stiles changes Derek's bindings for the time being, his eyes focused on Stiles’ hands as they wrap Derek’s chest.

“It has been three days, Adept.”

“Has it?” Derek has not stirred more than a few inches due to troubling dreams in that time, but Stiles _has_ managed to feed him small portions of soup and clean water, so there is that small bit of hope to cling on to.

“Yes. There are other soldiers that need attention-”

“How fortunate that they have you to care for them.” Stiles snaps, snatching up the dirty water and bindings, stomping over to the table that he has turned into his examination station, throwing everything he was carrying down with a clatter before turning to face Father Deaton once more. “After all, you are far better than a simple Adept when it comes to the healing arts, so why are we having this discussion?”

Deaton stares at him, his gaze neither sympathetic nor annoyed, and Stiles feels like there is a hook jammed into his gut that the Father yanks when he softly states, “Derek has not risen in _three days_ , Stiles, there is a chance that he may not rise in the next three.”

“There is also a chance that God will hear our prayers and he will rise _within_ the day.” Stiles refutes, fighting to keep the darkness creeping at the corners of his vision at bay, to keep his breathing even and regular. “There is still a heart beating beneath his breast, we cannot give up now!”

Deaton shows no emotion at Stiles’ impassioned cry and Stiles hates him a little bit for his cold detachment. “I also cannot see you ruin yourself for a man that may never wake to thank you for it.”

“Then gaze upon me no more.” Stiles turns back to the table that he had dropped everything, the day's supplies set out upon it much like Scott’s models for his campaign, and starts to gather up the poultices he needs to grind for Derek’s next changing. “After all, did you not just say that there were other men that needed your aid?”

Once more, there is nothing but silence as Father Deaton seems to just study him, or maybe he just observes Derek and sees how much Stiles is needed here. Stiles does not know, he keeps his back to the Father as the man moves about the tent, heart troubled at knowing that Deaton had already given up on Derek long before Stiles even laid a hand on him.

It is a few moments more before Deaton heaves another sigh and makes noises to leave, stating flatly, “I warned you to stay away from Sir Derek the very first day we came here, Adept Stiles. I can only hope now that I was wrong and the man does not prove to be your end as I feared he might.”

Stiles waits until he can hear the tent flap close before he moves over to Derek’s far too still form and lays a hand against his sweaty brow, brushing back a few stray locks of damp hair, praying as he always does that Derek will wake and regain his strength.

And, as always, Derek lays as still as he has ever since they first laid him upon this bed, only the shallow rising and falling of his chest give any indication that he still lives.

Sighing, Stiles brushes back Derek’s hair once more before moving around the tent and picking up the stray bits of debris that have accumulated for these past few days, marveling a little at the fact that _three_ of them have passed by with barely a notice from him.

“Father Deaton has visited us today and he is concerned about you sleeping so long. I never thought that you would be one for lazing about, given how stiff you are normally. I bet if you woke up now, you would immediately demand to be brought to the training grounds, in order to make up for lost time.”

Derek does not answer, but it is as soothing as ever to speak to him instead of listening to the silence that has overtaken the encampment even in the middle of the day, or let his mind consider what Father Deaton has said about the fact that Derek has not awoken yet… 

“The latest herbs from Sir Daniel seem to be helping as he had said they would; you are going to have another scar for your collection, but there may be less damage than we originally thought.” Stiles bites his lip as he remembers the purple hue to Derek’s wound and how deep it had been when he first stitched it up, seeing a bit of white bone here and there. “Granted, you may not have the full use of your leg after this, depending on how well you can move it after the healing is done, which we would be able to see if you would just _wake up_ , so we know what we need to work with.”

Still nothing from Derek, although the rattle that had plagued his breathing is gone, and Stiles releases another sigh as he turns to the news of the encampment with a heavy heart.

He tells Derek of what he knows of the Templar’s training, about Scott’s hesitancy to send anyone else out after what happened to Derek, about Boyd’s new sword design, Erica’s new leadership among the women she works with, and about the fact that there are those in the Templar ranks that seem to think that Derek needs some sort of moniker for his bravery in the fields.

“There are quite a few that think God’s Hound is appropriate, although that is quickly being shouted down by those that think The Wolf is much simpler and much better.” Stiles looks over at Derek with a small smile, imagining how the man’s brows would furrow upon hearing that, but knowing there would be a pleased redness about his face that Derek would try to hide. “I have a feeling that we have Sir Isaac to blame for that, considering he made a comment upon you being raised by wolves due to the way you ate.”

Watching as Derek breathes, Stiles softly whispers, “I personally think that The Wolf is the more fitting of the two; you are fierce in battle, yet protective of the ones you call your own. Seem nothing more than an unthinking animal solely bent on killing, but are merely misunderstood by those who do not try to get to know you better. Yes, Wolf would be a good nickname for you, and I cannot wait for you to hear it. For you to know just how much your men need you right now… How much _I_ need you…”

Stiles stops at those words, surprised and a little afraid that he said them at all, listening to the sands shift before deeming himself safe from anyone that might be listening in to his talks with Derek.

That had been the first time that Stiles has ever spoken of his feelings for Derek during the entire time he has cared for him, has only ever spoken of the men missing him and wishing him a speedy recovery, so the fact that he has done so now makes Stiles take a moment to examine just how tired he _really_ is.

No, to push aside the confession would be an insult to both Derek and the way Stiles feels about the man. It is more that Father Deaton words have spilt open the box that Stiles has kept his own fears in and he is now filled with an overwhelming urge to confess all before the time comes that he _can’t_ …

Shaking his head and standing abruptly, Stiles stomps over the fire that has dimmed down to coals in the middle of the tent and feeds it a few logs as he fights off the downward spiral his thoughts have taken, needing a bit more heat to boil the water needed for cleaning Derek’s bindings.

“You really need to wake up soon, Derek, because all of this waiting is starting to make even _me_ worry.” Stiles adds another log, careful to make sure that the fire has room to breathe, careful that he keeps busy and does not dwell. “I _know_ that you will wake, that this sleep is only a temporary thing, but it does not help that _days_ go by without even barely a stir from you. It would drive a lesser man insane, but since I _know_ you’ll recover, it just makes me… worry.”

Stiles’ eye sweep over the paleness of Derek’s face and the dark curl of lashes on his cheek, struck suddenly by the memory of his mother telling him a story about a girl who slept for hundreds and hundreds of years until her true love cut through a maze of thorns and climbed a tower to wake her up with true love’s kiss.

It’s a bittersweet memory and a bittersweet feeling that he could somehow wake Derek up with a kiss, but knowing of the man’s past, Stiles feels a little sick for even _considering_ kissing Derek while he was not present for it. Even if it was to save his life…

His gaze slides away from Derek then, to rest upon the Bible sitting beside him on the small side table, making Stiles blink as he tries to remember ever bringing that into the tent. Perhaps Father Deaton had left it behind?

“Remember the last time you were wounded like this and I read to you?” It seems to be the day for bittersweet remembrances as Stiles reaches over and picks up the well-worn book, even more certain than before that he was not the one that brought the book here. “Mayhap it would help if I did so again?”

Granted, last time Derek looked less pained than this and his face had a bit more color to it, but Stiles hopes that the same peacefulness that seemed to enfold them before is kind enough to come once again.

“Shall I read your favorite, or shall I dazzle you with a new Psalm?” Stiles teases as the book’s pages turn with barely a wisp of wind, his mind falling into a calm state as he finds the pages he’s looking for. “Ah, here’s a good one…”

Settling onto the chair he dragged from the corner of the room-Boyd will just have to sit on the floor if he visits today-Stiles clears his throat and begins to read.

“ _Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.” Surely he will save you from the fowler’s snare and from the deadly pestilence_ …”

Stiles lets the words flow over him, letting his mind focus only on the sound of his own voice as he reads, watching Derek for any sign that he might be stirring.

“ _…you will not fear the terror of night, nor the arrow that flies by day, nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness, nor the plague that destroys at midday. A thousand may fall at your side, ten thousand at your right hand, but it will not come near you…_ ”

A few yawns interrupt Stiles’ words, but he continues to read, promising himself that he will rise and get back to work as soon as he completes this Psalm. It’s only a short one after all, only a few more moments and he will get up, take care of Derek… 

“ _…you will tread on the lion and the cobra; you will trample the great lion and the serpent. “Because he loves me,” says the Lord, “I will rescue him; I will protect him, for he acknowledges my name. He will call on me, and I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble, I will deliver him and honor him. With long life I will satisfy him and show him my salvation._ ”

\----------------

The next thing Stiles knows is that he is being softly shaken awake, a voice calling his name in a way that says it is not the first time that they’ve tried, and Stiles sighs out a groan as he wishes that they would go away so he can go back to sleep.

Go back to sleep…

Wait, he wasn’t supposed to be sleeping… why wasn’t he supposed to be sleeping…?

Remembrance hits Stiles like a judgement bolt from God’s own fingertips, making him jerk from his chair so suddenly that Erica falls back from where she was standing as he pushes past her, his eyes only for the still form of Derek in the bed in front of him.

There are a few heart stopping moments where Stiles has feared that his inattention has ended Derek’s life, that his weakness has killed the man he loves, but then Derek is taking a rattling breath and allowing Stiles to release his own.

Leaning back in his chair, Stiles meets Erica’s wide-eyed gaze with a start of guilt, dipping his head in apology. “I am sorry if I harmed you. I had feared that I had- that Derek had-”

“It was quite clear what you thought, thank goodness I was wise enough to not stay in your way,” The wide eyes disappear quickly enough, but there is a furrow between Erica’s brows that Stiles is sure she learned from Derek as she stares at him. “I do not blame you for taking a few moments to rest, Stiles. When was the last time you got a proper night’s sleep?”

“I have more important things to do than waste my time snoozing like a pampered cat.” Stiles rebuts, even as his jaw is almost cracked in twain from a yawn that suddenly comes upon him. He glares at the grin that Erica gives him, knowing that he is feeling more disgruntled by this than he should be when he snaps, “Aren’t you supposed to busy elsewhere as well?”

Erica simply raises a brow at him, another trait that Stiles knows Derek taught her, and the look makes a sharp pain hit him in the chest, the thought that he may never see Derek give him almost the exact same expression making it hard to breathe.

“Stiles? Are you alright?” Erica is suddenly in front of him, her hands on his in a grip that is as bruising as it is grounding, making it easier to draw in the air that he needs and give her a shaky smile that does nothing to comfort because her next words are, “Do I need to call for Father Deaton?”

“ _No_!” Shaking his head, Stiles returns Erica’s grip in a desperate attempt to keep her here and not go running for the Father; Deaton had already made his disdain for the care that Stiles has given Derek quite plain, Stiles does not want to give him cause to think that Stiles needs to be taken away by force, if necessary. “Forgive my weakness, Lady Erica, I had a moment of doubt that distressed me. There is no reason to call for the Father.”

Erica studies him for a moment before her demeanor softens, undeniably partially due to Stiles’ nickname for her, as her eyes flicker over to Derek’s resting place before nodding. “You have been so strong these past few days, I forget that you were closest to Derek before he fell. It is not a weakness to show that you worry for him, or doubt for his well-being, but you are doing a great service here. Perhaps it is because you have not left his side but even I, as one with no medical knowledge, can see a marked improvement upon Sir Derek’s health.”

Stiles gives her hand another squeeze before something she has said catches his attention, making his face heat as he thinks about what it could possibly mean. “What do you mean, I am the closest to Derek? The man barely tolerates me, only because I am persistent and refuse to leave Derek be when he demands it.”

Erica frowns at him, reaching forward with the hand not in his grasp to flick him on the nose, leaving Stiles to blink at her in surprise as she snaps, “If you truly believe that, then you are a fool of the highest order! You are the only one that Sir Derek has ever _willingly_ gone to speak with and I have seen the ghost of a smile on that man’s lips _only_ in your presence. I do not know what you did that day you ran after him, but it lifted a load off of his shoulders that he has carried ever since the first day that I met him!”

Stiles is now blinking in both shock and surprise at the end of Erica’s impassioned speech, sure that his face would give the ruby banners that the men carry into battle a run for their money, and there is nothing he can say to Erica’s demanding glare.

She drops back onto the padded dirt after a moment, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like ‘stupid, oblivious fools’ under her breath.

Huffing at her, which only causes Erica to laugh at him, Stiles mutters, “It is not _my_ fault that I did not know of such things, it is not as if I followed Derek around every minute of every day.”

“Yet, you seem more than happy to spend every waking moment with him _now_.” There is a teasing note to Erica’s tone that has Stiles glancing sharply at her, only for her to blink innocently back in a way that does not fool Stiles at all.

It almost sounds like…

No, the feelings that Stiles has for Derek are seen as a sin by most, if not an abomination by all, and there is no way that Erica could be suggesting what Stiles believes that she is. While it is true that there are many here that come from far off and exotic places, with both Sir Boyd and Sir Isaac knowingly carrying traits from their homeland with skin and voice respectively, there is little chance that Erica comes from a place where such things are not only _allowed_ , but gladly _accepted_ …?

It makes a deep longing come to bloom under Stiles’ breastbone, wishing that such things existed and that he knew of where they called home, wishing that there was a way to leave this cursed ground and find his own place in this world among them…

Erica is looking at him with that pitying expression again and Stiles does not like the way that it makes him feel, so he pulls his hand from hers and makes his way to the fire at the center of the tent, deciding to finish the task that he had started before he slipped into slumber.

“While I am grateful for your concern, Lady Erica, there really is nothing that needs to be done.” Stiles builds up the fire again, the kettle that he was using to heat the water long since cold, the water inside no better. “I have my duty to Derek and I need nothing else until he is well again, so if there is nothing else I can help you with...?”

A heavy sigh answers his question as Erica makes noises as if she was about to leave. “I must demand that you break your fast, at least. Derek will heal no better if you are too delirious with hunger to see to him properly, and I demand that we speak of trivial things while we eat, for the rest of these fools have only war and battle on their minds.”

Stiles hates the way that she used Derek’s wellbeing against him, but knows that he will eat and converse with her while they luncheon, and he decides to throw her own deviousness back at her.

“Surely Sir Boyd doesn’t fall under the same vein as his fellow Templars? Such a shame, I could tell that the man had a certain fondness for you and now it is shown that you think him as barbarous as the men that surround him.” Stiles sighs exaggeratedly as Erica’s face gains the redness that had only just left Stiles’. “That poor man, when he hears of this, he’d be _heartbroken_ …”

The blow to his shoulder is expected, but Stiles is a little thrown when she follows it with, “Alright, I did deserve that, but you did not need to go on so. I just want to make sure that we do not lose two of our own because you are too focused on Derek’s care to see to your own.”

Put that way, Stiles can only appreciate what Erica is trying to do, making him feel like he has found the sister he never knew he wanted.

“I hope that today’s meal is more than the bread and water is has been for the past few days.” Stiles pulls his lips into a better smile than the last one that he tried, glad that he and Derek have friends like Erica in a place like this. “Perhaps some of Sir Greenburg’s delicious gruel?”

Erica giggles as her expression brightens, making Stiles envious of the way that she seems able to bounce right back from all the shit that life has thrown her way, unable to do more than laugh along with her.

“I’ll see what I can scrounge up from the ‘kitchens’, see if I can make up a feast for us.” With a wink and a wave, Erica is a blonde blur on the horizon as she makes her way to the center of the encampment.

“She’s a good friend, if a bit of a pain in the ass.” Stiles tells Derek, watching until Erica’s form is no longer in view, feeling a little lighter after the conversation between the two of them. “She seems determined that the pair of us are bosom companions, and I think she…”

Stiles trails off, uncertain if he should give voice to the thoughts that overcame him after Erica’s comment about his desire to be by Derek’s side, knowing that someone less accepting could walk in at any moment.

“It is a shame that she has given her heart to Sir Boyd, she seems like she would be able to pull you from your melancholy with little effort…” Stiles ignores the pain he feels at the thought of Derek sharing his life with anyone else but him, yet he knows that just because he has fallen in love with Derek, it does not mean that Derek feels the same for him. “As it is, she seems more of a sisterly type as far as I can tell, considering I never had any siblings of my own.”

Shifting Derek’s rather heavy form as he cleans and changes the bandages wrapped around the older man’s body, Stiles can see that Erica _was_ right; now that he is no longer blinded by panic and disbelief, he _can_ see that the wound has been healing and the skin has begun to fade to a dim yellow instead of a violent purple.

“You are healing nicely, Derek, and I am sure that it will be no time at all before you are growling at the rest of us for worrying over you.” Stiles ties the last of the bindings together before draping Derek’s clothing back over him, sighing heavily as he looks at Derek’s twitching lids, one of the few signs that Derek is still with them. “All you need to do now is wake up…”

The silence that always follows his questions lets Stiles hear that Erica is coming back up the hill, muttering obscenities about both Greenburg and his cooking loud enough for the Templars on the other side of the field to hear, and Stiles sighs as he makes his way over to greet her.

It seems like nearly every Templar in the regiment had seen her making her way to the cooking tent and had sent their prayers, warm well wishes, and solemn blessings of luck for Erica to bring back along with the food.

“A shame that all it took was Derek being gravelly wounded for the men to show how much he meant to them,” Erica huffs, throwing her hair over her shoulder as she scoops the last of her soup from her bowl with an edge of bread. “As it is, even that scoundrel Aiden has stopped muttering about Derek to the rest of the men.”

Stiles grunts as he swallows the remainder of his food, unknowing until the food had been placed in front of him just how hungry he was, and it took no time at all until his meal was finished.

Erica gathers up the dirty cutlery with a small frown on her face as she seems to fight some inner battle, before she spins on her heel and once more grabs Stiles’ hands between her own, somehow keeping the dishes in place under her arm.

“I know that you believe that you can shoulder all of this on your own, but I want you to promise me that if you ever feel as worn as you were this evening, you will call for someone to help you. Call for _me_ , if the Father is no longer in your confidence, and I will come as soon as I can. I will hold you no ill will if you need to take a moment to rest, to eat, to make sure you do not take Derek’s place in your determination to make sure he is cared for.”

Filled once more with the fondness that makes Stiles wish that he had the good fortune to have been born one of Erica’s siblings, he nods at her request, even though he knows that he will undeniably shoulder Derek’s care for himself and have to be pulled from the edge yet again.

It seems that Erica knows it too, for she draws him into an embrace as she hisses, “Foolish man. You are not alone in this, you are not the only one that cares here, and Derek is not the only one that needs to be watched over.” before leaving the tent for the final time that day.

Sighing, Stiles makes his way over to Derek with a bit of soup and water that he had saved, careful to make sure that he does not choke Derek as he feeds him. It does not take long before all of it is gone and Stiles has once more settled in beside Derek on his chair, hand gently stroking through Derek’s hair.

He sits there for a little while, going over the day with Derek and wondering how he would have reacted if it had been some other Templar in this tent, some other Templar that Stiles cared for…

It is something that Stiles can only imagine for so long before his mind supplies no more, for there are precious few that he would spend this much energy on, and none of them are at this camp.

Listening to the men settle in for the night, Stiles finally speaks of what has been weighing on his mind the most, what has been trying to take over his thoughts whenever he has a moment to himself.

“I know how much of a fighter you are, Derek Hale, and how much you care about the men you fight with. We are fighting this battle together, now, so I need you to not give up, alright? No matter what Deaton may say, or how long it may take, you need to keep fighting. I am your brother-in-arms in this, and I will not falter, I promise you.”

It is not until a teardrop hits his hand that Stiles realizes that he is crying, but once that first one falls, there is no stopping the rest. Dropping to his knees, Stiles presses his forehead against Derek’s chest, where that heart and his last bit of hope are still faintly beating, and openly weeps, gasping and choking with the despair he can feel seeping into his very soul.

“Please...” He asks, he begs, he _prays_ , “Please, do not take him to Paradise just yet. Please, give him the strength to fight this. Please, take him in Your hand and lead him back to me.”

There is no answer, save the raspy slide of Derek’s breathing and the soft song of the calling wind, but an almost peaceful emptiness has taken the place of the despair that had Stiles in its grip only moments ago.

He has made his plea, now all he can do is care for Derek and see where the Lord takes them, having faith that his Holy Father will not take away the man that means so much to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles reads Psalm 91 to Derek at the end of the first half of this chapter.


	8. Lazarus Rises

At first, Stiles believes he is dreaming.

It is the same dream he has had these past few days that start similarly; Derek wakes with a call of his name, Father Deaton and the men under Derek's command rush into the tent in a joyful horde, there is laughter and celebration as Father Deaton apologizes for ever doubting Stiles’ abilities.

Yet, there are no stampeding Templar, no cries of triumph, just that soft and almost inaudible summons of his name.

Jerking upwards in his seat, Stiles’ eyes immediately jump to the man that had barely moved, let alone made a sound during these past few days, only to see Derek pushing himself upright and looking at Stiles in complete befuddlement.

Stiles can hardly believe what he is seeing and practically falls out of his chair to get to Derek’s side, almost hysterical with the way that it makes Derek’s brow raise in that oh-so-missed way, Derek’s mouth opening to undoubtedly tease Stiles for his clumsiness.

Stiles does not give him time to do more than breathe in before he crashes their lips together, so overcome with the joy of seeing Derek _awake_ and _moving_ that he does not think of the consequences of his actions, just filled with the need to feel Derek breathing against him.

It is not the best kiss to greet Derek with, Stiles too eager in his movements making it more a clash of his lips against Derek’s teeth, and he can feel Derek trembling with shock-or perhaps even anger-against his skin, but all Stiles can focus on is that Derek is _alive_.

Alive, and Stiles has never believed in God more fervently than he does now feeling the thundering heartbeat under his hand, and he will willingly burn in Hell for this kiss if the payment is Derek still walking on this Earth.

Dizzy with happiness, Stiles starts to move away, knowing that Derek did not ask for his affections and to press for any longer would not be right, no matter how joyful Stiles feels at Derek being _awake_ -

A trembling hand wrapping around the back of his neck halts him and Stiles can only gasp in shock before he is being pulled back against Derek, his lips once more crashing against Derek’s in almost desperate embrace.

A whine leaves Stiles’ throat with almost no say from the rest of him, swallowed up by Derek’s own groan as he tilts Stiles head, his tongue licking at Stiles’ lips in short laps as if asking for entrance.

Stiles is only too happy to allow Derek in, shifting his body so that he is not leaning on Derek’s wound, but still pressed as close to Derek as he can, making another one of those groans rumble from Derek’s throat.

Embolden by the way Derek is reacting to his touch, Stiles decides to add his own tongue to the proceedings, running it alongside Derek’s in a bit of daring before sucking Derek’s bottom lip into his mouth with a low hum.

Derek keeps making these movements like he wants to push up from the bedding he’s on, but stopping only a few inches away with a pained wince, Stiles making a soothing noise as he presses as close as he dares due to Derek’s injuries.

For the longest time, there is nothing but the slick sounds of their lips sliding against each other’s, broken only by groans of pleasure when Stiles suddenly shifts and brushes their clothed erections together.

If Stiles was breathless before, the contact leaves him almost lightheaded and he can only press his forehead to Derek’s, staring into eyes just as stunned as his own, a face that rivals his in redness and a distractingly swollen mouth…

Stiles cannot help but dip down for one more kiss, that turns into another, and another, until he shifts again and brings attention to the fact that he is straining in his smallclothes.

Yet, he also can feel Derek straining due to his wounds and making these small noises that sound only partially pleasurable, and if there is one thing that Stiles does _not_ want to do, it is cause Derek any more pain.

He has been given a chance to be with Derek, something that he never thought was possible, and Stiles will be damned if he screws that up simply because he cannot wait until Derek is fully healed.

Pressing one more kiss against Derek’s lips, something that Stiles can see being a bit of a problem with how easy it is to just lean forward and cup Derek’s face in his hands, reveling in the feeling of Derek leaning forward to meet him-

Sighing heavily, Stiles finally pulls away, trying not to be affected by the low whine that Derek makes as Stiles moves away, but unable to keep from slipping their hands together as he settles back in the chair by the bed.

For a while, they just sit there, staring at each other and trying to accept the fact that this is really happening. Stiles can’t help but bring their joined hands up to place a kiss against the back of Derek’s hand, a thrill going through him at the way Derek’s eyes dilate before focusing on Stiles’ face.

“How long has it been?”

Stiles closes his eyes, breath drifting over Derek’s knuckles as he thinks back to the last time Erica had checked in on him, the worry from the first time slowly showing up again.

“Six days.”

Derek’s fingers spasm, almost as if he wants to draw Stiles near, but Stiles cannot let go now and he only clings tighter until Derek finally stops trying to pull away. “You were brought in bloody and on the edge of death, barely even breathing for the first few days.”

“Something tells me I have you to thank for the fact that I still breathe air and not the dust of my tomb,” Derek is looking at him with a softness that makes Stiles’ heart swell so much he is surprised that his chest can contain it. “Although, given how you greeted my awakening, it had more to do with a personal want than a spiritual need.”

Despite the causal way Derek says it, there is a hesitant uplift at the end of his statement that turns it into a question, making Stiles roll his eyes at his… his… his Derek.

“I do not greet every soldier I tend to with a kiss, and certainly not the kisses we shared.” Stiles hides a smile at the way that Derek preens at that, knowing that if he keeps looking at that joy, he might do something that will get the both of them in trouble. It is that thought that makes Stiles finally place Derek’s hands back in his lap, smiling softly at the pout he gets. “I certainly would not have spent the entirety of the past six days caring for them until Erica was tempted to sit on me simply to make sure that I did not run myself into the ground.”

Derek’s eyes widen and he tries to shift himself into a sitting position, Stiles rushing to his side to aide him, when they are both frozen by a sudden exclamation coming from the entrance of the tent.

“Oh my God! You are awake!”

Stiles has only a moment to react before Erica is throwing herself at Derek, and he manages to catch her before she manages to land on Derek’s injuries and wipe away all of Stiles’ hard work.

“Erica! You have to be careful!”

“You are awake! I cannot believe you are awake!” Erica is paying him no mind and Derek throws him a placating expression over her head, leaving Stiles to throw his hands up in the air and let them have a moment to themselves.

“If you end up pulling his stitches or aggravating his injuries, you can be the one that cares for him!”

There’s a scoff, and then Erica’s voice is a sly purr as she states, “I doubt you would let me, Stiles, considering that you barely let anyone _near_ Derek, much less _touch_ him.”

Stiles is glad that he is turned away from the pair of them, because he can feel his face flaming at Erica’s insinuation, and it grows ever hotter when Derek chuckles and says, “Well, I must say that I would be all too happy to stay under Stiles’ care, as he was the one that made sure I did not slip away.”

There’s a loud sniff and then silence, which makes Stiles chance a glance behind him, only to see Erica with her face pressed to Derek’s chest and her shoulders shaking. Derek’s wide eyes are fixed on Stiles, seemingly shocked at the display of affection.

Stiles mimes giving a hug, chuckling at the way Derek’s eyebrows frown at him before his arms wrap around Erica, one hand rubbing a soothing motion along her spine. It is so awkward and sweet that Stiles wishes that he had some skill with a pencil or charcoal, just so that he can immobilize this moment.

“I’m so glad that you are awake, Sir Derek. I thought that… that…”

“I believe I had said that Derek was far too stubborn to fall to something like this,” Stiles interjects in an attempt to stem the tears that are making Derek look more and more uncomfortable, making Stiles fear that Derek might strain something given how tense he is getting. “I think this just goes to show that you should listen to me from now on.”

There’s a watery chuckle from Erica before she is drawing back from Derek, wiping her hands across her face as she mutters, “I guess so. He’s going to hold that over my head forever, is he not?”

“I believe so,” is Derek’s prompt reply, chuckling at the dark look that Stiles gives him, before returning his gaze to Erica and wiping away a few stray tears that she missed. “I am just glad that I am alive to see it, and that you were so insistent on making sure that Stiles also made it through this.”

“Oh, so he is _Stiles_ now, is he?” The resilience that Stiles had originally believed that was one of the best things about Erica is not as admirable when it is focused on him. “No more ‘Friar’?”

Derek, on the other hand, recovers quicker than Stiles does, although there is still a bit of redness dusting his cheeks as he replies with, “I believe a man saving your life deserves a bit of familiarity, do you not?”

Merely humming in response, Erica gives Derek a quick once over before turning her gaze over to Stiles, who decides that the best course of action would be busying himself at the table behind him.

“Erica?” Another familiar voice calls out, drawing closer as they continue to call out. “Where are you? I thought you said that you were just going to… check in… on Stiles…”

Sir Isaac’s voice trails off as he takes in the scene in front of him, Boyd quirking an eyebrow behind him, as eloquent as always.

“Oh! Yes! Look, Isaac!” Erica makes a move like a ringmaster presenting a show, her enthusiasm making Derek blush again, and she laughs much like she had the first time that Stiles met her.

“Derek is awake!”

\----------------

Stiles is too far away.

Ever since he woke up and was greeted by Stiles’ affection, an affection that Derek thought he was never going to get, Derek cannot shake off the feeling that Stiles needs to be as close to him as he can be.

Yet, as soon as Isaac and Boyd had entered the tent, it seemed like an unknown signal had been sent out to the rest of the Templars and they have all descended upon him like a plague of locusts.

It also means that Stiles has stayed at the other end of the tent and barely moving so that he stays as far away from Derek as possible, letting only his gaze touch Derek’s form with a searing intensity. He looks away as soon as he is caught, and while Derek can understand his caution, Stiles’ excessive avoidance would be just as suspicious…

Thankfully, Erica seems to know something is going on and she speaks with Stiles in a quick hushed whisper that makes him go pale for a few moments, before he is by Derek’s side again.

Stiles still does not overly touch him, keeping his actions brief and clinical, but his gaze is even more intense this close, and Derek loses the thread of the conversation a few times wishing they were alone so that they could explore what happened when Derek had first awakened…

It had been…intense and incredible, making him flush and duck his head as he remembered it, a heat between the two of them that had been missing whenever Derek had been with Ka-

No, Derek will not compare the two of them, for there is nothing to compare; Stiles is her better in every sense of the word and in every way that matters, and Derek is looking forward to spending the rest of his life finding more things to love about him.

“-I think that might be the best course of action, considering what nearly happened to him. I would prefer to send my best man home on his feet and not in a box, is that not right, Derek?”

“Huh?” Derek looks up to see that both Commander Scott and Father Deaton have joined the rest of the people gathered in his tent, Father Deaton’s gaze fixated solely on Stiles, who keeps his own gaze on his lap.

“I was just saying that perhaps it would be best if the fighting were done for you,” Scott’s voice is softer than he has ever heard before and it makes Derek feel a little unnerved, wishing that he could catch Stiles’ eye and ask him when the relationship between he and the Father became so strained. “I was speaking with Father Deaton and he said that, even if you fully heal-”

“-which he _will_!” Stiles growls, his gaze coming up for a moment to glare at Father Deaton before snapping back down again, his fists tightening so much that his knuckles are turning white.

Derek desperately wants to reach out a place a hand over Stiles, let him know that _Derek_ at least has faith in his abilities, but even if it was not dangerous for the pair of them, Derek knows it would be unwelcomed anyway.

Scott simply gives Stiles a look like he is disappointed that Stiles interrupted, and Derek is finally grateful that he is injured, as he cannot be court-martialed after he was just honorably discharged. “As I was saying, given how severe your injuries were, there is a very high chance that it will affect your ability to fight, and you have just returned to us, I will not send you out simply for you to be slaughtered.”

Derek meets Scott’s gaze, unsure how to take this news, and a little thrown at what this might mean for him. Much like the guilt that he carried through most of his life, he’s been a Templar for longer than he can remember, leaving him feeling adrift and anchorless.

“Do not feel alarmed, De- Sir Derek. I will be going with you, so you will at least have a companion on your journey.”

Derek feels a little better when he sees that he is not the only one surprised by Stiles’ little announcement, granted his surprise is more due to the fact that Stiles has decided this without the need for any discussion, but he is more focused on the way Father Deaton and Stiles are staring each other down.

“Are you sure this is a good idea, Adept Stiles?” It’s a little unnerving how Father Deaton manages to sound angry with actually _sounding_ angry. “I seem to remem-”

“Yes, I am sure there is much you remember, Father Deaton.” Stiles, on the other hand, has _no_ problem with sounding angry and Derek is once more left wishing that he could place a hand on Stiles’ shoulder or pull him close. “I, also, have much that I remember and even more that I wish I did not. I believe that it is time that I head back to my parish, a battlefield is no place for me, and I believe it would be safer to go with a former Templar then wander the roads as an unarmed Friar.”

There are murmurs of agreement and Erica seems to pick up on Derek’s need to comfort Stiles, because she puts an arm around his shoulders and mutters, “Now who am I going to talk to whenever Boyd is being a pain?”

Stiles finally breaks his staring contest with Father Deaton and gives her a small smile, “I believe you will have to be stuck talking with Isaac again. My deepest condolences.”

“Hey!”

There is a clamor of voices after that, Erica and Isaac bickering like siblings and a few of the men bemoaning the fact that they were losing one of their best healers, Stiles turning pink at the praise-

“I hardly think I am one of the best healers…”

“You pulled a man from the very jaws of death! What are we going to do with you gone?!?”

“I am sure that Father Deaton will be more than enough for you; after all, he was the one that cared for you while I was busy caring for Derek.”

“Yes, I suppose so…”

-leaving Derek to observe the people around him with a warm fondness, barely registering Father Deaton leaving the happy circle that Derek and his friends-and if that isn’t a shocking thought! -make as they discuss the preparations for Stiles and Derek’s departure.

Leaning back onto the pillows and blankets that his fellows have brought him so that he would be able to sit up and talk with the rest of them, Derek lets their voices roll over him like a distant melody.

When he wakes later, the sun is shining through a gap in the tent’s flap and managing to hit Derek right in the eye, making him reflectively twist to make the brightness go away, only to gasp at the sudden stab of pain.

“Hey, hey, easy there. You are far from fully healed, you need to think before you move.”

Looking up at Stiles and noticing that the tent is once more empty save for the two of them, Derek allows himself a small smile as he reaches out and pulls the younger man close, “It is good that I have you to look after me, then, so I can make use of your ever so helpful hands.”

Placing a gentle kiss on Stiles’ palms, Derek continues his gentle tugging until the younger boy is sprawled on the bedding beside him, that long body curled over his like Derek had often dreamed of…

“Oh?” Stiles’ face is flushed, his eyes dilated and mouth open in a small moue of surprise, letting Derek know that he said that last part out loud. “You used to think of me here? While you were alone at night? Did you… did you… pleasure yourself while you did so?”

Stiles’ face grows even darker after saying that, but his eyes dart down to Derek’s ties, his tongue coming out to wet his lips, a hungry look on his face that has Derek’s cock twitching in anticipation.

“Yes…” Derek breathes as he watches Stiles watch him, wanting to feel that pale skin but afraid to ask for too much, do something that will make Stiles turn away from him. “I would stroke myself to thoughts of you, hoping that there would come a day where you would look upon me with fondness…”

“Will you show me?” At Derek’s hesitation, Stiles reaches forward and runs a soothing hand down Derek’s side, his expression trying to seem comforting even though his breath is coming a little fast. “If it is fear of being discovered that stays your hand, I have spent the past six days in a near constant state of paranoia, and know that no one will be up for at least another hour or two. If it is unwillingness that keeps you pinned…”

Stiles pulls back so that barely any part of him is touching Derek, making him whimper at the sudden cold before Stiles leans down to give him a quick kiss, somehow soothing while he makes the blood rush through Derek’s body.

“If it is unwillingness, tell me of this and we shall find other ways to please ourselves.” Stiles gives him another soft kiss, nuzzling his nose against Derek’s cheek before placing a kiss that is more bite against Derek’s neck, a low growl sounding from his throat. “After all, this is no hardship, and you seem to be enjoying yourself as well.”

Enjoying himself is an understatement and it is only his injuries that is keeping him from bucking against Stiles’ leaner form, but Derek wants to show Stiles what he does to him when Derek thinks of when his wounds are healed and he can pin that constantly moving body beneath his own…

Stiles lets out a gasping breath that lets Derek know that he’s managed to say all that out loud again, but Stiles seems to like that kind of thing if the way he groans in Derek’s ear is anything to go by.

“Let me,” Eager hands pull at his clothing, and Derek does what he can to help, but in the end it is Stiles that does most of the work, only stopping when Derek’s scar is uncovered.

It is far from completely healed, no longer vicious and angry nor is it a faded silver line, but it still draws the eye and stands stark against the tanned flesh of Derek’s body.

“I can-” Stiles cuts off Derek’s sentence and his train of thought by pressing his lips against the tissue, brushing feather light all the way from the tip of Derek’s shoulder to where his wound disappears under the waistline of his trousers. Needless to say, any protests that Derek may have had die on his tongue, a choked off sound getting caught in his throat when Stiles’ lips jump from his scar to his cloth covered cock.

“Mhm…” Stiles kisses him again, the front of Derek’s trousers growing damp from Stiles’ spit when he decides to throw in a few licks for good measure. “I believe you were going to show me what you looked like on those cold nights I did not slumber beside your bed…”

“I would rather think of now instead of then, as I believed I was committing a sin pleasuring myself to even _thoughts_ of you, and now you have blessed me by joining me in rapture.” Derek knows he is blushing again, can feel the heat of his face, but he focuses more on loosening his ties than on meeting Stiles’ eyes.

Or he tries to, until nimble fingers still his own, and a gentle hand coaxing his head up so that he can look into Stiles’ warm amber gaze.

“This? What we share here? Could never be a sin.” Stiles shakes his head when Derek tries to argue, tries to remember all the phrases and Scripture that say otherwise, and then Stiles is nodding at the world outside their little tent. “The men that take pleasure in killing their fellow man, in causing pain and suffering to those who do nothing that deserve it, they are the ones that sin. This is the farthest you could possibly get from any kind of transgression; it has taken me a while to come to this conclusion as well, but the fact that we are giving of each other and sharing of each other, speaks more of love than hate to me.”

This time it is Derek that is drawing Stiles forward, Derek that places gentle kisses on his lover’s face, wasting no more time on excuses or fears. Stiles loves him and he loves Stiles, and that is all that really matters.

Kissing until they are again dizzy with the joy of it, Derek pulls Stiles so that he is once more lying beside him, one of those clever hands drawing nonsense patterns on his arm, as Derek finally pushes past his smallclothes to take himself in hand.

The first touch of his fingers makes him close his eyes against the sensation, the buildup of the last half hour going toward making this a short experience, something that Derek hesitantly tells Stiles as he beings to stroke.

“That is fine,” Stiles responds breathlessly, and there is a rustling sound that makes a shiver of awareness shoot up Derek’s spine as he realizes that the sound is Stiles taking his own pleasure, realizes that Stiles is taking his pleasure from _watching Derek_. “I am probably going to come to completion in a moment here, anyway.”

Groaning, Derek peels his eyes open to see what Stiles looks like in the throes of pleasure, and almost immediately decides that was a mistake; Stiles’ face is flushed and his mouth is open wide on a pant, his eyes focused on Derek in a way that almost looks like he wants to _devour Derek whole_ …

No one has ever looked at Derek like that and it does not take long after that before he is spilling over his fingers with a groan that deepens to a full throated howl when Stiles shifts so that he is once more pressed against Derek from shoulder to ankles. It only takes a few thrusts into the mess on Derek’s own stomach before Stiles is spilling as well, his groan of pleasure vibrating against Derek’s shoulder as his fingers scramble helplessly in Derek’s hair.

They lay there wrapped up in each other, just breathing in each other scents and coming down from their orgasms, when the far-off sound of the morning horn sounds throughout the valley.

Sighing heavily, Stiles leaves the bed as slowly as molasses being poured from a jar, his progress hindered (or helped, depending on who you asked) by Derek’s wandering hands and roving mouth.

“See?” Stiles asks with a yawn, throwing his robe into the corner and pulling on a new pair of trousers, giving Derek a beautiful view of his long, lean form as he dresses. “What did I tell you? It’s the same nearly every morning; the morning horn calls, the sentries switch out with the morning patrol, and then the rest of the camp goes about their business…”

“So, if we wanted to do this again, we simply have to awake an hour before dawn?”

Stiles suddenly stops in the middle of his dressing, only one arm through his tunic as a slow predatory smile slips across his lips, making Derek wonder what Stiles would do if there was not a very grumpy Isaac already making his way up the hill.

The thought makes him shiver with anticipation, his eyes dark on his lover even as he gets rid of any evidence of their morning together, comforted by the fact that he will be making a similar mess soon…

He can hardly wait.


	9. Epilogue: Peace Be With Thee

Derek stretches out his leg as he settles into the bedding, watching as Stiles puts the last of the wood onto the fire, thinking about the last few weeks he spent at his old encampment.

It had taken a while for his leg and side to fully heal, Stiles making sure every other morning that Derek was properly…stretched, something that Father Deaton had commented seemed to help Derek’s healing process. He had asked them what kind of stretches they did, quoting an interest in the art, making both Stiles and Derek avoid each other’s eyes in fear of somehow giving something away.

Even now, Derek can feel his face growing warm at the memories of sweaty mornings and sighs of pleasure as they learned what the other liked, what made them moan and sigh, what had them arching in desire…

They had grown so comfortable with each other in the misty mornings that it was difficult not to fall in an easy camaraderie in the light of day, and there had been a few times where one of them would smile instead of being offended by what the other would say. It had become so commonplace that the rest of the Templars simply believed it was due to how close they had become during Derek’s healing period, that some sort of weird friendship had grown out of them being forced together for a long period of time.

There were more than a few times that Stiles was sure that Erica knew something with the playful hints and innuendos that she would constantly drop around them, making one or the other drop something/glare at her. It finally came to a head when she pulled Derek aside and flat out stated that she had heard of a place where people of his kind could live with minimal issues, if they were careful.

When the time came for them to leave, Derek proving very thoroughly to Stiles that his leg was as good as new, something that Stiles passed onto Commander Scott later with a hint of redness about his cheeks and a Derek that seemed almost like he was _preening_ beside him.

(It might be a good thing that they are leaving, after all. For one thing, Stiles will never be able to look at that table the same again…)

There were many goodbyes and a few tears, more on Stiles’ part than any of the other Templar’s, before Father Deaton moved forward to grab Stiles’ entire arm and give it a frim shake that rattled Stiles’ frame, making Derek bite back a threatening growl.

“I hope you know what you are doing…”

Derek is brought back to the present by the sensation of Stiles’ body pressing against his, his mouth pressing against the nape of Derek’s neck. “Are you nervous?”

“I am trading in my sword for a shovel, my shield for a bucket, and it has been almost ten years since I have done so. What do you think?”

“I think that you need to relax, and I know just the way to do that…”

Derek snatches Stiles’ wandering hands before they can drift any further, pressing a kiss against each palm, before pinning them against his chest. “As much as I would love that, and you know I do, I’m pretty sure that we are going to need to all the rest we can get.”

Stiles tucks himself against Derek’s back, sighing contentedly at the warmth he finds there. “Have to make a good first impression.”

“Need them to trust us.”

“Give us a house with a door that _locks_.”

Derek places one more kiss against Stiles’ palm, smiling at the sleepy yet almost purring tone that has overtaken Stiles’ tone. “Exactly.”

“I love you, Der.”

“I love you too, Stiles”

\----------------

Word of Stiles and Derek reaches the encampment a full fortnight later, the messenger’s face grave as he delivers the news to Commander Scott and Father Deaton.

Both men are upset by the news, wishing that they had something better to tell the friends that the pair left behind, but knowing that they needed to hear of it before the darker of the rumors reached their ears.

Rumors that spoke of stray infidels that struck down traveling caravans, of unsafe roads that claimed almost as many lives as the highwayman did, of desecrated corpses torn apart by wild animals…

The triad seemed to take the news with an almost unfeeling indifference, something that shocks both the Commander and the Father, although the Commander is the only one that notices that all three of them had a strange scroll that seemed weathered to an almost orange color held closed with a blue ribbon that had arrived just a day before the messenger arrived.

If he had asked, he would know that the three of them were not the only ones that had received this missive, that there was an older Templar that also received this scroll just in time for the message of his son’s disappearance to be softened.

An older Templar that, as soon as he finished reading the letter, immediately resigned his command and walked away from a three-year campaign, leaving his fellow men baffled at this sudden change.

They said his mind broke at the news of his son, that there was nothing binding him to this mortal plane, and he was going to find a way to end it all by the rising the sun.

What they did not know was this particular Templar was meeting up with a group of people that he had never met before, yet they carried something that bound them all together.

An orange scroll bound with a blue ribbon.

For, inside that rather strange scroll, was the untidy scribble of a familiar hand that spoke of a place neither East or West, neither under the Church or the King, that two men made their home in a beautiful redbrick that had a rather large oak in the back.

One of the men was considering planting a row of rosebushes along the walkway…

It also spoke of a village that needed a fighting instructor and a physician, something that these men knew a little something about, and were more than willing to lend their services.

There _had_ been questions about the fact that they lived together, but they had died down pretty quickly, most people believing that it was sweet that the elder man was watching over his friend until he found a nice girl to marry…

The elder of the men did not find this as funny as the younger one.

The note had gone on for a while talking about everything that had to be done to make the redbrick feel like home, the litter of puppies the younger one had ‘found’ and somehow ended up being adopted by the pair, and the warmth of the stones in the early morning sun.

It ended with a wish to see his friends soon, for his father to meet the man that became such a large part of his life, and the new home they made in a place that accepted them.

All in all, it was a letter that spoke of happiness and joy, of making a future where there had been nothing but sorrow before.

It was the story of how two men finally found peace.


End file.
